


Integrate

by illwick



Series: Unwind [32]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Jealous!John, Kink Negotiation, Leather, Light Pain Play, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Prostate Milking, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensory Deprivation, Subdrop, Suspension, Vibrators, Violent Sex, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23289682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: A new case with an old friend yields surprising results.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Unwind [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/704085
Comments: 774
Kudos: 505





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> K so turns out what i needed to make myself sit down and finish this case fic was a global pandemic. ENJOY!

“Deceased is Arthur Bainbridge. Caucasian, mid-thirties, good health, well-to-do, family money. Found here in his home by a family friend. Current approximation is that he’s been dead about three days.”

“Cause of death?” John does his best to keep his tone even as he fights the urge to break into a brisk jog in order to keep up with Greg and Sherlock, who are currently scaling the staircase at what John considers to be a wholly-unnecessary pace, considering that the victim was… well, considerably past the point of immediate peril.

“Asphyxiation, by the look of it. Just through here.” Greg shepherds them down the bustling hallway of the opulent terraced home, dodging the uniformed officers swarming the scene. He lowers his voice conspiratorially and throws a quick glance over his shoulder. “I’ve got to warn you, lads, this one’s a bit… peculiar.”

“How so?” John had assumed by the fact that Greg had even called Sherlock in so early in the case meant there was _something_ unusual afoot, and he’s keen to get to the heart of it.

“Just… try not to stare, yeah? And keep _this one_ in line.” Greg nods towards Sherlock and gives John a pointed _look._ “We’re not the only agency working the scene.”

“I’ll do my best.” Now John’s interest is certainly piqued. Certainly there wouldn’t be _other agencies_ involved in a straightforward case of strangulation.

They reach the end of the hall, and Greg turns to lift the yellow tape barring the doorway of the most extravagant master suite John’s ever laid eyes on. He and Sherlock file past Greg, and then both stop dead in their tracks.

The scene is… horrifying. 

And not just because of the body positioned spread-eagle in the centre of the king-sized bed. That would be horrifying on its own, of course, but John’s long since pushed past the point of shock when it comes to cadavers, and it takes a lot to turn his stomach these days.

But what’s truly horrifying is that the scene is disturbingly, achingly _familiar._

The victim is completely nude, arms and legs affixed to the bedposts with lengths of black jute rope (6 millimeters, by John’s initial approximation), tied in an intricate _shibari_ pattern that John can’t immediately identify off-hand. He has a swath of black silk fastened across his eyes in a blindfold, and a strap of leather clenched in his mouth. His skin shows signs of impact play across his muscular thighs, and John strongly suspects that they’d find matching marks on his backside if they were to turn him over. Wrapped around his neck is a thick black collar, the flesh around it mottled and bruised. A leash links the collar to the headboard via a length of slack black leather.

“Ha! Fancy seeing you speechless for once, Holmes. This is quite the spread, innit?” Navarre emerges from what John assumes is the en-suite bathroom, a wicked grin on her face. “We’ll be talking about this one ‘round the water cooler for _ages._ Not everyday we get shit _this_ twisted...”

 _“Oy,_ keep your voice down!” Greg’s tone is sharp; he’s clearly not taking any sass today. “Might I remind you, we are supposed to be _professionals_ here.”

“Geez, sorry boss.” Navarre rolls her eyes as she joins, snapping off her gloves. “Fancy a chat about the weather instead?”

“I’d fancy a chat about expediting the results of the tox screening. Mind tracking down Johnson for me?”

 _“Fine.”_ With a beleaguered sigh she disappears into the hallway, leaving the three of them alone with the scene.

John does his best to get his wits about him. “So. So. This is. Um.” His brain doesn’t seem to be interested in participating in a competent conversation. It’s too busy putting on a dazzling slideshow of all the times he’s had Sherlock tied up in positions _just like this one,_ writhing and begging and…

 _“‘BDSM.’ Bondage/Domination/Sadism/Masochism,”_ Greg recites smugly. “Evidently the victim and his partner were regulars on the _scene,_ as it’s called. They had memberships to not one but _two_ separate forums where people go to… do this shit publically, apparently.”

John furrows his brow. “Publically?”

Greg gives an exasperated shrug. “I know, right? Bad enough to get up to it in the privacy of your own home, but evidently that’s not enough for some people.”

John swallows hard and tries to will away the flush he can feel forming in his cheeks. “Oh. Um, right.”

“Cause of death was determined to be asphyxiation. See the way his collar is hooked up to that… uh, leather… leash-thing? Seems somebody choked him a little too tight for a little too long.”

“Somebody?” Sherlock pipes up so suddenly that John visibly startles; up until this point he’d been as stock-still as a statue. “Didn’t you say he had a partner?”

Greg nods. “You see, that’s just the thing. His partner died three months ago. Car accident. No one in his life had any idea he was seeing someone else.”

“Jesus.” John takes a few tentative steps towards the bed, his stomach churning. His brain can conjure the scene all too easily: a heated tryst, a moment of abandon, then a simple, innocent miscalculation, and suddenly…

“So it was an _‘accident’.”_ Sherlock’s tone is tight, terse.

“Could be. Mistakes happen.”

“So then why are we here? And more importantly, why are there _other agencies_ here? Who is this guy?” John is completely flummoxed.

Greg breaks into a sly grin. “Right question, wrong subject. Thing is, the guy’s partner? The one who died in the car accident? MI6.”

John’s head snaps around. “MI6?”

“Mmmhmm. Luckily, they’ve been pretty up-front in telling us what they know so far. Their agent didn’t do much to keep his sexual proclivities hidden-- apparently, it occasionally proved to be somewhat of an _asset_ for them. The agent and his partner here were well-known and well-respected on the local _scene._ The agent’s death was a devastating loss for all involved.”

“...But?” John can tell there’s more to the story.

“But his partner here didn’t believe that the car accident was an accident. Kept claiming he’d been _murdered._ By all accounts, he had launched something of a personal investigation into the matter, a lover’s vendetta, that sort of thing.”

John raises his eyebrows. “And now he’s dead.”

“And now he’s dead. If you ask MI6, it’s a simple accident caused by an indulgence in reckless activities as a result of unmitigated grief.”

“...But if we ask you?”

“If you ask me, there’s a hell of a lot more going on here than meets the eye.”

John furrows his brow. “What makes you say that?”

“The fact that we pulled a set of prints from the scene. Even had a complete print on the leash itself. They belong to a well-known dominatrix.”

John shakes his head. “How is that unusual?”

“She’s been dead for over half a decade.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realised I should probably clarify a bit going into this fic: I do take _most_ of the BBC series as canon. That was the basis of my “In Between” series; it’s a set of vignettes that occurs in between the scenes we saw on the show. “Unwind” takes place in that same narrative, and you’ll notice that the many major plot points through S4 are reflected in the reality of what I write here. In that vein: John is aware that Irene is alive, and that she has been in contact with Sherlock (as established at the conclusion of “The Lying Detective”). I do not, however, take anything to do with Eurus as canon, as I’m sorry but magical mind-bending sorceress sociopaths hidden on private islands plotting to take over the world and blowing up Baker Street with a drone are not a real thing, and that’s just stupid.
> 
> Last bit of disclaimer here: this chapter references the events of “All Things” from my “In Between” series; it may help to read that before embarking on this chapter.

Sherlock had been standing on the balcony staring off into space for 46 minutes without moving a muscle. John had done his best to run interference in the meantime; he’d combed the scene, examined the body, and reviewed the initial coroner’s report. He was doing his best to maintain his objectivity, but nothing could spare him from the waves of molten mortification that roiled up inside him as he evaluated the contents of the bedside table, or perused the (impressively expansive) play items displayed in the closet. Christ, he and Sherlock really ought to get a lockbox for their things... Yet none of it could eclipse the single, stoic fact hammering through his brain with manic relentlessness: _Irene Adler was back._

“Nearly done here?” Greg’s voice from the closet entrance snaps him out of his stupor and John whirls around, promptly knocking the riding crop off its stand and creating a humiliating cascade of various whips and accoutrements off the adjoined shelf.

“Erhm, yep! Fine, doing just fine. Just… wrapping up.” John feels flames creeping up the side of his face as he scrambles to return the dazzling array of erotic apparati to their proper place.

Greg just chuckles and kneels down to help him. “Quite the stash, eh? Can you imagine actually using some of this shit?” He shakes his head woefully at a cat-o-nine-tails.

“Christ.” John feels a bit light-headed just thinking about it.

Greg lowers his voice conspiratorially. “And did you _see_ the size of some of those things in the nightstand? I don’t consider myself a prude, but _honestly…”_

John _had,_ in fact, seen the very impressive array of toys in the nightstand, and was doing his best not to mentally envision what it might be like to employ some of them. Was this the type of stuff _The Woman_ used with her clients?

“Erhm, yeah, it was… eye-opening.” He’s trying to be diplomatic in all this, but there’s a toxic combination of shame and arousal and _indignation_ beginning to swirl beneath his skin. He wishes people would stop treating these mens’ private sex lives like some kind of _joke._

“Listen, is… is Sherlock alright? He used to get sort of… weird about sex stuff, but that seemed to taper off once you came in the picture.” He gives John a knowing wink. “Figured you helped him… acclimate to the waters, as it were.”

John rolls his eyes and places the last stainless steel dildo in its display case with an air of finality. “It’s not the sex that’s throwing him off. It’s Adler.”

Greg cocks his head. “What about her?”

“He knows her.”

“He _what?”_

“He’s worked with her before.”

Greg blanches. “You mean…” He gestures vaguely towards the wall of torture devices.

“Jesus, no, Greg, not like that. I mean we worked with her for a _case_ before. Years back. Private client. It didn’t end well.”

Greg furrows his brow. “So… you don’t think it’s pure coincidence that she’s involved in this.”

John shakes his head. “Not sure. Last I heard, she was still pretty narrowly outrunning a lot of very bad people who were after her. Returning to London and simply getting back to her old tricks seems… _unusually_ reckless for someone as calculating as she is.”

“So you think her return to London is part of a bigger picture.”

John sighs. “I have no idea. But I do know one person who owes me some answers.”

The air on the balcony is damp and brisk, and John puffs futilely into his cupped hands as he joins Sherlock overlooking the view. Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him.

John takes a deep breath. “I need to know the truth.”

“About what.” Sherlock’s avoiding eye contact, gaze fixed on the skyline laid out before them.

“You know what. About Adler. After Bond Air, your brother told me she joined a witness protection scheme and was headed to America.”

Sherlock barks out a laugh. “You’re asking _me_ to tell you the truth while still feeding me that load of bollocks? It was a lie back then, John, and you knew it damn well.”

John swallows hard. “You let me believe you believed it.”

“I did.”

Neither of them fills in the rest of that thought. _I did, because we’d started having sex just a few weeks before and it was easier to pretend I believed you than to tell you the truth._

“But now I… I need to know the truth. All of it.”

Sherlock swallows. “What did Mycroft tell you? Back then?”

“That she’d been taken prisoner by a terrorist cell in Karachi and beheaded.”

Sherlock lets out a snort of amusement. “Lie wrapped in a truth. Typical Mycroft.”

John cocks his head, his pulse quickening. “So the part about the terrorists was true.”

Sherlock gives a casual shrug. “More or less. A few weeks before Mycroft came to you with news of her demise and you two conspired to feed me that bullshit about the witness protection scheme, I’d received an anonymous text containing a dinner invitation and the coordinates of a sleeper cell in Karachi. I took matters into my own hands.”

John’s stomach clenches. “When was this?”

Sherlock bites his lip. He doesn’t answer.

John’s breath is coming faster, and he can feel his chest clenching. “Sherlock. _When was this.”_

Sherlock clasps the railing of the balcony and exhales deeply. “Do you remember… when I said I needed to tend to a family emergency in York?”

That’s it. “THE NIGHT AFTER WE FIRST HAD SEX? _THAT’S_ WHERE YOU DISAPPEARED TO?” He feels nearly apoplectic with rage; somehow, this revisionist history of his first sexual encounter with Sherlock is making him feel like the ground has fallen out from under him.

“I didn’t want you to be upset--”

“UPSET? _‘UPSET’_ IS NOT SCRATCHING THE SURFACE OF WHAT’S GOING ON HERE, SHERLOCK. You’re telling me that you fucking _flew to Pakistan on your own and risked your life for the woman who’d just publically thrown you under the bus and humiliated you in front of your own brother and the entire British government, and for what? For love? For lust? What the fuck was it, hmmm? Because it was apparently something I couldn’t give you.”_

“Don’t be so _selfish,_ John, it had nothing to do with you--”

“Like HELL it had nothing to do with me! I saw what she did to you during that case, watched her dig her claws into your chest and rip your heart out and stomp on it, all for her own selfish gains. Yet despite my best efforts, you decided to come running the moment she snapped her fingers. Why. I want to know WHY.”

Sherlock rounds on him, and John’s startled to see his eyes flashing with what he can only identify as _anger._ “Fuck off, I don’t owe you an explanation.”

_“Excuse_ me?”

“I said, _I don’t owe you an explanation._ You don’t own me, John. You didn’t then, and you don’t now. Where I choose to place my allegiance is my own business, not yours.”

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN MIND? You’re standing here telling me that you’ve risked your bloody life for the woman who set out to destroy you, and yet you manage to look past all that so you can, what, keep on with your quirky little _sexting_ sessions?”

Sherlock’s lips have pulled back into a sneer of defiance. “As I recall, you were the one encouraging me to respond.”

“BEFORE I KNEW SHE MADE YOU RISK YOUR GODDAMN LIFE TO INFILTRATE A FUCKING TERRORIST CELL TO SAVE HER UNGRATEFUL ARSE!”

Sherlock gives a dismissive shrug. “Say what you will. At least _she_ knows how to keep things _interesting.”_

It’s an insult. It’s an insult and a challenge and something feral and ugly rears its head deep inside him, and for the first time ever, he is wildly, _dangerously_ close to crossing their personal life with the professional. He wants to take Sherlock _down._ He wants to put him on his knees and wrap a belt around his throat and remind him that _John_ is the one who gets to decide when he fucking _breathes._ He wants to bend him over the railing of the balcony and fuck him until he’s crying and screaming and begging for mercy, exposed for all the world to watch while John meticulously takes him apart, shattering his fucking aloof, untouchable facade. He wants to hold him down and rip him apart until he’s incapable of speaking any word except John’s name, a plea and a benediction all in one.

But instead, John turns on his heel and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for the comments! It makes me feel so connected and improves my sanity greatly. Keep 'em coming!


	3. Chapter 3

John slams the door of 221B behind him. It’s pointless, he knows, Sherlock’s probably halfway across town by now completely immersed in his thrilling new game of cat-and-mouse, but it feels somehow therapeutic to direct his anger somewhere - even if it’s just the warped wood and rickety doorframe. He kicks off his shoes and stalks into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and nearly jumps out of his skin when a voice emerges from behind him.

“Mind pouring enough for two?”

“Jesus _Christ.”_ He drops the kettle and whirls around to find himself stunningly, startlingly face-to-face with one Irene Adler. 

It takes him a moment to recognise her. She looks so utterly transformed from the last time he’d seen her, had she not been on his mind already he may not have even registered her identity at all. Her hair is long and loose and sprinkled with honey-gold highlights that fall in effortless curls around her face. Her skin is tan and there’s a disconcertingly oxymornical smattering of youthful-looking freckles across her nose. She’s wearing pressed linen trousers and a flowy white blouse, and he’d honestly have mistaken her for a yoga instructor or homeopathic masseuse if he’d passed her on the street. 

But they weren’t on the street. They were here, in his flat, and John is overcome with roiling, _seething_ anger.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Came to see Sherlock.” She looks infuriatingly casual as she pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and settles into it.

“He’s not here.”

“Yes, I can see that. When will he be back?”

“Don’t know. Why don’t you text him? Maybe he’s finally free for _dinner.”_

She narrows her eyes appraisingly. “As you can imagine, I’m trying to keep a low profile right now. Stay off the grid.”

“Ah, right. On account of the whole _murder_ thing. No offense, but I’d rather you not use our flat as your safehouse, considering you’ve got several government agencies searching for you. Seems like it’ll be a real hassle if they find you here. Loads of _paperwork_ and the like.”

She licks her lips and stares levelly back at him. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Out looking for you, I imagine.”

She smiles.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. He’s got some questions for you. About that corpse with your fingerprints on it.”

“Right. That.” She’s coy. Aloof. John wants to flip the table over.

“What do you want with him, hmmm? Here to ask him another _favour?_ Want him to risk his life to bail you out again? Because it’s not going to work this time.”

The corners of her lips turn up into a sneer, and she leans back in her chair with infuriating grace. “And why’s that? You think just because he’s got you taking care of him now he’ll leave me to the wolves? Unlikely. That’s one of my favourite things about him: he’s achingly, _predictably_ loyal. Like a pretty little pet, wouldn’t you say?”

“You need to leave. Now.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Out. Or I’ll throw you out. Don’t think I won’t do it.”

“Ooooh, that wouldn’t be too wise, though, would it?”

John narrows his eyes. “And why’s that?”

“Because he’ll know I’ve been here. I’ve left a few small clues around the flat; nothing major, just a hint or two here and there. A strand of hair, a tube of lipstick, maybe a little puzzle to solve. Don’t bother looking for them, they’re nowhere _you’d_ find them. But he would. And then he’ll know I was here. And that you kicked me out. Put me in _danger._ And I don’t think he’d like that much, do you?” She drums her perfectly-manicured nails against the table. John notes they’re not painted red anymore, but they’re buffed and polished and infuriatingly pristine.

John’s breathing heavily through his nose, and his hands are clenched so tightly he distantly wonders if his nails will break through the skin of his palms.

“Fine. You can wait for him. But you can’t wait up here. Go downstairs.”

She cocks her head inquisitively. “What’s downstairs?”

“There’s a proper office down there now. We have a strict ‘No Sociopaths Upstairs’ rule, of which you’re currently in violation. So if you’d be so kind?” He gestures firmly towards the front door.

With a smirk, she rises. He does his best not to rake his eyes down her body as she makes her way out to the landing, but Christ, something about the way she _moves…_ unacceptable.

She pauses with her hand on the banister, and tosses her hair back over her shoulder. “You know, I really could use a cuppa. If _you’d_ be so kind.”

John clenches his jaw but gives her a curt nod. “I’ll be down in a minute.” He’s forced to accept the fact that he’d rather not leave her unsupervised, even in their workspace.

The second she’s out of sight, he procures his mobile and shoots Sherlock a quick text.

JW  
<13:15> We have a visitor.

At a loss for what else to do, he reluctantly makes his way down the stairs.

By the time he reaches 221C, she’s already lounging casually on the loveseat, picking through the candy dish beside the box of tissues on the end table. “It’s a nice setup you’ve got down here.”

“Mmm.” John gives a noncommittal hum and flicks on the electric kettle they keep in the lab area, then rummages through the cupboard for some mugs.

“Very _professional.” ___

__“Well, we figured we ought to stop using our flat to host the myriad of criminals and psychopaths we seem to attract, considering we have a daughter to raise now.” He keeps his response as civil as possible._ _

__Irene laughs, and John throws a calculating glare over his shoulder. She recomposes herself immediately, but is still staring knowingly at him as she pops a candy in her mouth. “Please. That’s not why you’ve sent me down here.”_ _

__“Oh, it’s not, is it?” He procures two teabags for the mugs and proceeds to set a tray._ _

__“Of course not. You think I don’t recognise another Dom’s flex when I see one?”_ _

__“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The kettle clicks, and John pours the boiling liquid over the bags with a steady hand._ _

__“Is that so? You just figured you’d send me down here and expect me to _not_ notice that suspension rig in the corner in front of a very deliberately-angled full-length mirror, or the fact you’ve got a rather _extensive_ array of loops and hooks affixed to the underside of that island? Not to mention the fact that the lack of echo in this otherwise incredibly sparse room indicates the presence of some _very_ thorough sound-proofing.” She snaps her fingers twice, as if to demonstrate. The sound dies on her fingertips._ _

__John picks up the tray and makes his way across the room, setting it down on the coffee table with an abrupt _clack._ “Not sure what you’re getting at.” He lowers himself into one of the armchairs beside the fireplace._ _

__Irene grins at him. “So you’re saying that if I were to stand up and open that cupboard over there, I wouldn’t find enough rope and whips to make even a professional blush?”_ _

__John raises his cup to his lips and takes a deliberate sip. “I haven’t denied a word you’ve said. I’m just asking if you have a point.”_ _

__“My point is, one Dom to another, you’re showing off your playpen as a power move, and I’m simply telling you: _point taken._ From the moment I met Sherlock Holmes I knew he was in desperate need of a firm hand and a hard cock, and it’s been a source of my deepest disappointment that I could only give him one of the two. I’m glad you’ve stepped up to the plate, is all. Started taking care of him properly.” She picks up her own cup of tea and takes a long, slow drink._ _

__John doesn’t avert his eyes from her gaze. “We get on with it.” He’s pleasantly surprised at how even he’s able to keep his tone._ _

__She issues a withering sigh and cups her tea in both her palms. “What I’m saying is that I’m offering you a… gentleman’s agreement. I may be calculating and manipulative, sure, but I’ve also got manners, and I know better than to play with another Dom’s toys. So you don’t have to worry about me taking advantage, alright? You can trust me. One Dom to another.”_ _

__John issues a deprecating chuckle. “You want me to _trust_ you, eh? So you’re telling me I can _trust_ you to be honest with us, tell us why you’re _really_ here, what you’re _really_ running from, and why there’s a clean set of _your_ fingerprints all over the body of a man poised to become a whistleblower on an MI6 covert operation?”_ _

__“Don’t be stupid, I’m not going to show you my hand just because I’ve agreed not to stack the deck. All I’m saying is that I won’t set out to deliberately undermine your… special relationship. I’ll stick to the work. Keep the riding crop out of it… for now.”_ _

__John sets down his mug and crosses his arms across his chest. “And why should I trust you this time? Why would it be any different from the last?”_ _

__“Because from what I can deduce, unlike last time, you seem to have things… under _control.”_ There’s no mistaking the innuendo in her tone, and John licks his lips in subconscious response._ _

__“What’s under control?”_ _

__Their heads whip in tandem towards the source of the voice. Sherlock is standing stiffly in the doorframe, and the expression on his face could have burned a hole through sheet metal._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep the comments coming! They're keeping me sane (well, 'sane' considering the circumstances)-- stay safe, everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, thank you for your patience! I'm updating my posting schedule to once a week for this one, as it turns out navigating a global pandemic is more time-consuming than I initially thought.
> 
> As a point of reference, the Craneworthy case mentioned here was initially discussed in both the "Dress" and "Talk" installments of this series, if you're curious - but you're fine if you just pick it up here:)

Sherlock takes a measured step into the room. He keeps his chin up and his gaze level, hands calmly at his sides, willing his transport not to betray the series of alarms currently shrieking through his Mind Palace. _Intruder. Intruder._

His eyes fixate on The Woman, John’s presence suddenly reduced to nothing but a subtle buzz in the background, dwarfed by the enormity of her reappearance.

She’s utterly transformed-- smooth skin tanned to an olive bronze, hair a sultry cascade of sun-kissed curls framing her strikingly angular face. Gone is the garish green eyeliner and blood red lipstick, forsaken in favor of a simple swipe of mascara. The diamonds have disappeared from her earlobes and fingers, and she looks for all the world like some holistic muse.

But it’s a disguise.

And as she so adeptly once pointed out, a disguise can tell you _everything._

“Guatemala? _Really?”_

A dazzling smile spreads across her face, and her voice is tinged with laughter-- clearly delighted by his deduction. “What’s wrong with Guatemala?”

Sherlock shrugs and moves closer, drawn to the unfolding mystery of her like a moth to flame. “Hiding out in Central America? Seems a bit predictable. Almost _trite.”_

She laughs and stretches her legs out on the loveseat, arching her back _just_ enough to reveal a bit of cleavage above the highest button of her spun-silk shirt. Sherlock tries not to look at it, but finds himself failing miserably. “You know, sometimes places are popular for a reason. There was sun. Surf. And plenty of opportunities for… _entertainment.”_

Her feet are bare. She’s wearing a toe ring.

He clears his throat. “I’m sure.”

“Don’t worry.” She winks up at him. “None of them were as interesting as _you._ I’ve missed this.”

_Stop. No. Don’t think about her that way._

He didn’t _love_ her. But back then, all those years ago, he’d… _wanted_ her? No, no, not like that, he’d been _drawn_ to her, to her brassy, brazen energy and enigmatic mind. He’d thought that it was simply that she reminded him of Alice, but he’s come to realise that, in light of the way his relationship with John had unfolded, he’d also been desperate for her _authority._ Her _approval._ Her _domination._ The way she toyed with him and commanded him and lured him to do her bidding…

It hadn’t been overtly sexual. 

Well.

There were the few times he’d fantasized about her tying him up and whipping him. Donning a strap-on and fucking him.

Those brief, sporadic fantasies had all been endlessly confusing for a myriad of reasons, The Woman’s gender being the least of it. The rest of it-- the pain, the power, the pleasure, it had been a messy tangle of uninspected, deeply repressed desires that had simply been allowed to lie dormant for too long.

That was all before John.

_And then there was John._

He tears his eyes away from The Woman and seeks out the familiar cerulean blue of John’s gaze. John’s jaw is set, hands clenched into tight fists, back ramrod straight where he’s sitting across the room observing their interaction.

Sherlock swallows hard. John doesn’t blink.

He scrambles to collect his thoughts. “So. You what, left a body on my doorstep like a cat depositing a mouse? Seeking my attention? Well, here you have it. Talk.” In three resolute strides he’s lowering himself into the chair beside John’s, steepling his fingertips under his chin.

Irene licks her lips, grins, and settles back against the arm of the loveseat. “What do you know about the Craneworthy case?”

Time stands still.

For a moment, Sherlock hardly dares to breathe. Next to him, he can feel John frozen in sympathetic anticipation-- This was it. _The chickens had come home to roost._

But how much does The Woman actually _know?_ And what the hell did the decade-old case have to do with the current victim? Sherlock’s brain whirrs as he attempts to calculate his next move.

“Samuel Craneworthy was a police commissioner incarcerated for bribery and money laundering back in 2011. His wife is an MP who was cleared of any wrongdoing, and she’s currently still serving in Parliament,” he recites matter-of-factly. That much had been obvious from the papers.

The Woman raises her eyebrows. “...And? What else?”

Sherlock shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. 

The Woman’s eyes narrow. “Don’t play dumb with me. That’ll get us nowhere fast, and we’re living on borrowed time as-is. I said, _What else?”_

There’s an authoritative edge to her voice that sends a shiver skittering down Sherlock’s spine despite his better judgement. He can feel John shifting defensively in his seat next to him.

“I have my own suspicions.”

“How _many_ suspicions?” She cocks her head appraisingly. He understands the insinuation implicitly.

“Fifteen. Give or take.”

Irene smiles. “Good. _Very_ good. Clever boy. I had an inkling we’d be on the same page.”

Sherlock pretends her praise doesn’t make his cheeks flush.

“So you can conclusively say that all fifteen cases are, in fact, not accident but murder, and all are linked back to Craneworthy?” John’s voice is steady and stern. He’d been indulgent when Sherlock had first suspected there was more to the Craneworthy matter than met the eye; he’d helped Sherlock review the evidence from the cold cases that he’d come to strongly suspect were linked to Craneworthy’s arrest. But it had turned out just as Mycroft had (infuriatingly) predicted: Simply a series of dead ends wrapped in miles of bureaucratic red tape. They’d eventually been forced to move on without a satisfactory conclusion.

“I can.”

“How?”

Irene shifts, tucking her feet beneath her and looking-- just for a moment-- a _bit_ remorseful.

“I may have been… initially involved.”

John visibly recoils. “In their _murders?”_

She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t _kill_ anyone, don’t be obtuse. I was simply employed as… mmm, what did you used to call it? A _consulting criminal._ I’d receive a list of individuals who were wanted for more questioning about their involvement in the case. It was my job to… get to know them. Find out what they liked. Report back.”

“Report to who?” John’s not pulling his punches.

“The kind of money they paid didn’t allow for those types of questions.”

John shakes his head. “And you… what, thought it was merely a coincidence that your targets _just so happened_ to all end up dead?”

The Woman reaches up to carefully tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. It’s a calculated gesture, intended to prompt the appearance of vulnerability; Sherlock knows it all too well. “My employers didn’t make it obvious. They were… conservative in their actions. As I’m sure you know, the deaths occurred over a period of eight years. Most appeared to be accidental. It took me a fair amount of time to notice the connection myself, and _I’d_ been involved up front-- it wasn’t something the impartial observer would notice.” She shoots Sherlock a pointed glance, and despite himself, he internally preens at the insinuation.

He clears his throat. “The causes of death were widely varied. Household accidents, suicide, overdose, heart attack, stroke. You believe your employers were in a position to flawlessly cover up such a wide variety of executions?”

She quirks her lip up in amusement. “Well, they clearly weren’t _flawless,_ were they, if they got _your_ attention.”

“They got my attention, but nothing came of it. John and I haven’t worked the case for months. So that fact that you’re here claiming to have been somehow involved is interesting timing, indeed. Why now?”

The Woman grows suddenly serious, a shadow of consternation making its way across her face, all semblance of levity evaporating in the blink of an eye. “Because I know I’m next.”

John leans back in his chair and folds his arms in front of him, narrowing his eyes skeptically. “Did they threaten you?”

“No, but I’m no fool. I can detect a pattern when I see one, and this particular pattern was accelerating at an alarming rate. Jessup Maycolm, Greta Fulton, Steven Strong, and now Steven’s partner Artie, all dead within the last six months. This case went cold years ago, but for some reason, someone is newly committed to tying up loose ends.”

“And that means you?” John still seems unconvinced.

“I wasn’t wrong, was I? Though I should give credit where credit is due; murdering one witness and framing another for it; two birds with one stone? Points for creativity.”

“So you believe whoever’s responsible for these murders framed you to put the authorities back on your trail?”

“Precisely. It’s a real pity, after all that work I put in to disappearing.. Faking one’s own death is _such_ a bureaucratic nightmare, wouldn’t you agree?” She cocks one perfectly-groomed eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction provocatively. He diplomatically ignores it.

“So where should we start?” He’s committed to keeping this professional-- and to preventing John from storming out, which Sherlock strongly suspects he’s about one wry innuendo away from doing.

The Woman shrugs. “Thought you were the detective here.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, but I believe you just confessed to being _initially involved_ with several of the victims, which is new information to me. Which, congratulations, means that for once, you know something I don’t. So _talk.”_

“Talk?”

“How did you meet your handlers? How did you entrap your targets? How did you report your intel?”

“Coded cypher. Sex. Twitter. Next?”

“Coded cypher? Elaborate.”

“You’re familiar with my website, correct?”

Sherlock purses his lips distastefully. “In passing.”

The Woman smirks. “It was a way to promote my image, obviously, but you could also request my services through the portal., A passphrase was required to submit a request, of course; _Serious inquiries only._ Essentially, I could only be contacted if you’d received a referral from another client.”

“Simple.”

“Effective. Plenty of people in my line of work use a similar method to screen prospective clients. The point is, in late 2011 I began to receive some rather peculiar requests from a newly-registered potential client.”

“Peculiar how?” It’s the first time John’s chimed in, and Sherlock tries not to bristle at his sudden interest in the exact _nature_ of the requests.

“It wasn’t sexual. Well, I should elaborate: I received _plenty_ of requests that _most_ people would not consider inherently sexual, but as it turns out humankind has a gloriously diverse range of kinks, so things as innocuous as reading the newspaper while wearing a nightgown or brushing my hair while singing ‘God Save the Queen’ are sometimes exactly what someone needs to get their rocks off, and God knows I’d never begrudge them that.” Sherlock watches John shift uncomfortably in his peripheral vision. “But these requests were different. In fact, most weren’t requests at all, simply seemingly-random gibberish: _Come out, sunshine! Want to avoid the common cold? The Tudor King’s a phoney. How to double-cross a suspicious spouse.”_ I initially ignored them, but they kept on coming. Eventually I realized they were a code.” 

“A skip code.” Sherlock’s chest feels suddenly tight.

The Woman blinks. “Yes. Exactly.”

“So they set a meeting.”

“They did. It was with a surrogate, obviously, no one directly involved in the operation. But I began to correspond with them.”

“And you… gave them your intel on Twitter?” 

“That’s how I’d communicate where to meet up. I’d just check in at a location, then actually show up there one day later.”

Sherlock scowles. “I _knew_ it was odd someone in your profession would constantly advertise their whereabouts on social media…”

The Woman laughs. “Hiding in plain sight.”

“So on to the next part.” John seems eager to cut her amusement short.

“What’s the next part?” Her tone is chiding.

“The sex.” John remains unamused.

“The sex? What exactly would you like to know?” The woman swivels her gaze to meet John’s directly, uncrossing and recrossing her legs to give him her undivided attention. Sherlock suppresses a growl.

“We certainly don’t need details, but were there any common threads in what you were being asked to report? Did you take recordings of any type? Hang on to any evidence for… oh, how was it you liked to phrase it? _Safe keeping?”_

The Woman grins and licks her lips, and despite her current lack of lipstick, the image of _blood red_ flashes unbidden through Sherlock’s memory. “I didn’t have to; it seemed like that much was arranged by my handlers. But you’re finally asking the right questions, Doctor Watson; there was a common thread. _Splay.”_

John looks bewildered. “Splay?”

“It’s a nightclub in Soho. Fetish-themed.”

“... So, a sex club.”

The Woman rolls her eyes. “Nope. There are plenty of those in the city, many of which are more discrete and more… _intense_ than Splay. Splay is… how to put it? Like Disneyland for the kink-curious. It’s more a costumed performance than anything overt.”

“So there’s no actual sex there?”

She shrugs. “There’s some public slap-and-tickle, a bit of bondage, but it’s mainly bored celebrities wearing leashes and leather corsets just to _feel_ like they’re being devious.”

“Celebrities?” Sherlock narrows his gaze.

Another shrug. “It boasts a ‘discrete’ atmosphere, but it’s really a place to _see-and-be-seen._ Somewhere for well-known individuals of a certain class to pretend to be naughty in the hopes that someone catches wind of it and they end up in the gossip columns. Not exactly my usual fare, as you might guess.”

“But your handlers wanted you to take your targets there?”

“They insisted upon it. I assumed they had access to the security network or had the club bugged and were simply collecting evidence for eventual blackmail. After all, all of my targets were involved in the government in some way or another, so being spotted at a purported ‘sex club’ with a professional dominatrix would certainly raise a few eyebrows in the halls of Parliament. All in a day’s work, I figured at the time. My handlers paid handsomely, and the work was sporadic and minimal. A decent enough gig.”

“Until all your targets started turning up dead.” John doesn’t sound like he’s buying it.

The Woman narrows her gaze at him. “Like I said, I didn’t start connecting the dots until much later. It wasn’t as if they were showing up dead a few days or even weeks after I’d seduced them. It was months later, sometimes years, and their deaths weren’t usually worthy of a write-up on the front page of the Times, like you said: household accidents, heart attack, suicide, stroke… It was a long time before I made the connection myself. By the time I did, it was too late. And now they’re after me, too.”

John’s eyes meet Sherlock’s, and an unspoken agreement passes between them. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “Alright. We’ll start with Splay. John and I can see what type of surveillance system they have in place; there’s the potential we could determine a link between the security team and another organisation.”

John nods curtly. “I’ll make arrangements for Rosie to stay with Molly for a bit.”

“And I’ll need to devise some aliases for John and I to infiltrate the club undercover… you said they cater to celebrities? That might be tricky, but perhaps we could devise some sort of backstory--” He’s cut off by a bark of laughter from Irene. “What? What’s so funny?”

“You’re Sherlock bloody Holmes. Just call and put yourself on the damn list.”

Sherlock frowns. “But then. Then they’ll think. They’ll think John and I.”

She rolls her eyes, unable to control her laughter. “Yes, they’ll think you and your funny little doctor sidekick are hopelessly gay for one another and deeply into weird, kinky sex. Explain to me how any of that’s wrong?”

“And _you--”_ John interrupts, rising to his feet and whisking the tea tray off the table, plucking the still half-full cup from Irene’s hand with altogether more finality than necessary-- “really need to find someplace else to stay. We appreciate the intel, but we have a family, and we prefer not to centre a target firmly over our domestic abode, _if you’d be so kind.”_ With that, John deposits the tray on the back counter by the sink and strides out of the room. Sherlock can hear his footsteps ascending the stairs back to 221B.

He fights the urge to sigh. Clearly, this was already going to be more complicated than he’d initially thought.

He reaches into his pocket for a pen and picks one of his business cards off the coffee table, then scribbles an address on the back and offers it to Irene. “Here. It’s the address of one of my boltholes in the city. Nothing fancy, but there’s running water and electricity and decent enough reception. If you need to reach me, open the northwest window. I’ll have eyes on you.”

She accepts it wordlessly, to his relief. As complicated as his feelings are towards her, knowing she’ll be out of danger-- at least temporarily-- is a reassurance.

And then he’s just standing there awkwardly, in a weighty, wordless silence, feeling pinned by her gaze, raw and dissected and… 

“I’ll just be going then.” She mercifully breaks the stalemate, swinging her legs off the loveseat and slipping her bare feet into a pair of soft leather sandals that lay discarded on the rug. “Take care, Mr. Holmes.” With that, she leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek before turning and walking out the door, leaving him floundering in her wake.

But there was no time to stop and consider what any of it meant-- the way his skin tingled where her lips had pressed against it, the strange and foreign _pull_ he felt towards her, a gravitational impulse, the tangle of resentment and humiliation juxtaposed with the undeniable, unavoidable compulsion to _help her_ and why, _why--_

No, there was no time for any of that.

The game, after all, was afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments because quarantine IS THE WORST.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, did somebody order 30 pages of porn?

Sherlock can’t help but wrinkle his nose in distaste as he peruses the flashy website for Splay. Across the room, John gives him an inquisitive glance from where he’s sitting all but buried under a small mountain of medical records Sherlock had dug out of storage from their initial investigation of the Craneworthy case last year.

In what had felt like a matter of minutes (but in reality was nearly three days), the sitting room had been utterly transformed from the heart of their home and heath to ground zero of the investigation. An explosion of paperwork littered every available surface, and the back wall had been relegated to its customary role as Sherlock’s working blueprint of all the moving pieces. Photographs, medical reports, newspaper articles and interview transcripts were pinned in (what Sherlock deemed to be) an elegant reflection of his delicate brainwork, but what John referred to as “a madman’s dartboard” due to Sherlock’s penchant for stabbing the various items with a letter opener each time he drew a dazzling new conclusion or reached another frustrating dead end.

He’d wanted to follow the Splay lead earlier, but they were only open Thursdays through Sundays, so it was with an air of grim resignation that he’d put it on the back burner and focused his attention on getting himself up to speed on the latest leads. Lestrade had been helpful in sharing the Yard’s incoming evidence, but Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being woefully misled by what he perceived to be an enormous blind spot in the shape of one Irene Adler.

So at last, Wednesday had arrived, and not a moment too soon. He was beginning to form what he was fairly certain was a vague outline of the chain of events precipitating this latest string of slayings, but without confirmation from Splay, he couldn’t be sure he was on the right track. But tomorrow night, they’d _finally_ be able to start their investigation properly.

Even so, from what the website indicated, Splay _itself_ was turning out to be even more of an offensive, obnoxious caricature of the BDSM scene than Sherlock had initially allowed himself to believe, and his enthusiasm for following this particular lead was waning more and more with each passing moment. Despite himself, he issues a low moan of disapproval and buries his face in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” John slaps another file shut and slips it diligently back into the storage box (he was always the one attempting to fight off the inevitable avalanche of evidence taking over their living space each time they took a case, a habit which Sherlock thought he’d _surely_ have abandoned after this many years of knowing him, and yet…).

Sherlock sighs and rubs his temples. He hadn’t slept more than two hours a night for the last few days, eager to feed his ravenous beast of a brain with every last shred of evidence he could drum up. It had been a while since they’d had a proper case, and he was all too eager to fall back into his old routine. Even so, it was growing harder to deny that his transport was running on fumes, and he’s forced to admit that his chagrin over the frivolity of Splay’s branding was undoubtedly exacerbated by his rapidly-shortening fuze.

“Just… Splay. The stupid club. I’m looking at the website and it’s… grotesque.”

John’s brow furrows and he rises to make his way across the room, crouching down to peer at Sherlock’s laptop screen over his shoulder. Sherlock pretends that John’s proximity doesn’t cause his heart rate to increase by 15%; Stupid mammilian biology, still prompting the urge to _mate_ despite there being _much_ more pressing matters at hand.

Much to his delight, John’s nose immediately wrinkles in mutual revulsion. “ _‘Designated floor seating for subs? Mandatory leash laws?’_ The hell sort of bullshit is this?”

“Apparently the sort of _bullshit_ tourists on the _scene_ expect from their Big Kinky Night Out, from what I can deduce.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose and straightens back to his full height (Sherlock’s heart rate decreases as his pheromone imprint recedes). “Christ. There’s a pleasant thought: A bunch of uneducated voyeurs adapting stereotypical _mores_ in a completely unnegotiated power exchange. What could go wrong?”

Sherlock internally preens at the bitterness and disdain in John’s tone. John was such a _good_ Dom, so caring and cautious and fastidiously self-educated, so devoted to the mantra of _safe, sane, and consensual,_ so attuned to Sherlock’s every need, so open and communicative--

_No, stop that._ Sherlock internally scolds his mutinous mammal-brain. _That_ part of his relationship with John was _separate_ from all this. They didn’t combine work and pleasure. That was Sherlock’s rule. Hard stop.

Sherlock slaps his laptop shut and deposits it on the table, nearly upending the cup of cold tea and two biscuits that John had set out for him sometime in the last three days and he’d promptly disregarded. “Still. We’ll need to blend in. We need a plan.”

He follows John’s eyeline to the uneaten biscuits, which he seems to have just registered. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Not important.”

“Sherlock.”

_“Fine.”_ Without fanfare he grabs a biscuit and stuffs the entire thing in his mouth. “As I was saying, we need a plan.” His words are garbled around the food, and John rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s obstinance.

“What’s there to plan? You’ve still got your disguise from the Hassan case, right? That seems to fit the dress code well enough.”

Sherlock swallows the barely-chewed biscuit and belligerently resists the sudden urge to cough around the dry crumbs (he’d never give John the satisfaction). “Yes, I suppose the collar and cuffs will fit you well enough. Now, about the surveillance--”

“Wait, what?” John’s blinking down at him, completely taken aback.

“Wait what _what?”_ Sherlock picks up the cold cup of tea and takes a swig.

“Why would I be wearing the collar and cuffs?”

Sherlock stares up at him. “Because, John, you’ll be taking the submissive role in this portion of the investigation. I’d’ve thought that was _fairly_ obvious.”

John seems to be fighting the urge to recoil. “Why would I take the _submissive_ role?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps because it would be _rather_ difficult for me to deduce our persons of interest and conduct productive interviews if I’m kneeling on the ground at the end of a leash?”

John swallows, looking rather blindsided. “But… But I’m.”

Sherlock waits patiently for him to finish his sentence.

John blinks. “I’m.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “You’re _what,_ exactly?”

“I’m not a sub.”

“Well, no, and that’s why we call it a _disguise,_ you see. It’s where you go undercover pretending to be something you’re not. Sort of ‘Detective 101’ stuff, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock is trying not to sneer, but there’s something about John’s aversion to being labeled a _submissive_ that is ruffling his feathers in a rather unsettling way.

He can practically see John mentally start to backpedal. “No, no, I get that, it makes sense, I suppose. I just wasn’t… expecting. So I’ll be the one doing the… the kneeling and such, then.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“No. I’m just not… experienced in all that. But I’ll figure it out. It’s good. I’m good. It’s all fine.” The words come out in a hasty tumble, and Sherlock feels adequately mollified by John’s admirably adept change in tone.

But now that he mentions it, John does make a salient point: Neither of them has any first-hand experience in being at the opposite end of a power exchange. In all the years that he and John have been experimenting with these dynamics, Sherlock has always gladly assumed the role of the submissive partner, every cell in every fibre of his being singing in unprecedented ecstasy as he experienced the pleasures of unthinking, unwavering _compliance._ Until he’d met John, he’d never understood the nature of that urge buried deep within himself, that blinding compulsion to _kneel_ and _present_ and _surrender._ Under John’s guidance, he’d learned how to harness that desire and wield it not as a weakness but as a _strength,_ transforming it from something _shameful_ and _dirty_ into something _powerful_ and _pristine_ , a consensual exchange between two equals, designed to bring them both to the epitome of pleasure. It was John who had taught him the beauty of his own desires.

But _how,_ exactly, did John do that? Sherlock’s hard drive had a tendency to go on the fritz during their sessions. He knows things would start out with that sizzling, unmistakable _current_ between them, and then for all he can tell, John recites some magical incantation and the next thing Sherlock knows, he’s on his knees with a mouth stuffed full of cock, or handcuffed to the headboard taking his third load of the night, or suspended from the ceiling of 221C, flailing in the throes of a mind-blowing orgasm emanating from the thick vibrator in his arse while John strokes his sweaty hair and murmurs words of encouragement into his ear. For all he knows, it’s witchcraft, and he realises that he has _woefully_ underprepared for their undercover mission. Unacceptable.

“I think we should Unwind tonight.” He says it simply, nonchalantly, as though suggesting that they order Thai or put on the kettle for tea, instead of requesting an all-out sexual power exchange.

John frowns. “What?”

Sherlock feels slightly miffed; he thought John would instantly leap at the opportunity to have sex while they were mid-case. “I said, I think we should _Unwind_ tonight. We can do a little research for our undercover mission.”

John licks his lips, and Sherlock can see a telltale flush beginning to creep into his cheeks. “What about your _‘No sex during a case’_ rule?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s technically _for_ the case. I’m just now realising that I’ve not paid much attention to _how_ you take control as the dominant partner when we’re having an exchange. If I can observe it first-hand, I’ll be much better suited to my character tomorrow.”

John lifts an eyebrow in polite skepticism. “So you want to _Unwind_ so you can take mental notes on _how_ I get you to submit?”

“Precisely. I’m usually too mentally checked out to take note. I’ll endeavor to rectify that situation.”

John sighs. “No offense, Sherlock, but isn’t you mentally checking out sort of the _point?_ Seems like it’d be a bit awkward trying to dominate you if you’re intent on not going under.”

Sherlock tries not to lose his patience. Honestly, why could John not just make things _easy_ for once? “Look. I’m asking for sex mid-case. You’ve been horny enough the past three days that you’ve been wanking in the shower to try and take the edge off, but watching me work has you so keyed up that you’ve taken to sneaking off to the bedroom for some mid-afternoon relief as well. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” (John pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and muttering something irrelevant about _personal boundaries_ under his breath.) “If I were you, I’d take advantage of this rather unique scenario.”

John runs his fingers through his hair, the mix of embarrassment and exasperation turning the tips of his ears a rather endearing shade of pink. “I suppose. If you’re sure.”

Sherlock grins, the cat who got the cream. “Excellent. So. What do you want me to do?” He stands up to face John, shoulders back, gaze steady and sure.

John hesitates. “You want to do this _now?”_

“Are you busy?”

“Well actually, yes, a bit. I told Molly I’d drop off these coroner’s reports for her to review before the end of her shift. And besides, I’m not… I’m not exactly in the headspace at the moment. I need a second to… to _plan,_ you know.”

Sherlock blinks, intrigued. “Oh! So you… so you plan out a session before you start it?” How absolutely _fascinating._ The thought had never really occurred to him before; he just figured John sort of _innately_ knew what to do, as if he had a magical Dom-sense that somehow guided the way.

John shrugs, looking a bit reserved. “Kind of, I guess. I have… I suppose it’s like a mental list, things I’ve read on message boards that seem like we’d enjoy, or fantasies I’ve had that I want to try out. Then depending on what kind of session it seems _you’re_ in the mood for, I make a kind of mental road map of how I’d like things to go. It doesn’t always happen exactly the way I want, of course, but it’s nice to have a sort of outline.”

_Interesting,_ indeed! Sherlock berates himself for never asking such pertinent questions sooner. “So you tailor the session to my mood as it’s happening?”

“Yeah, in a way, yeah. To both our moods. Sometimes I’ll have planned something that involves you being… really compliant, then it will turn out you want to spar instead. Or sometimes I’ll plan to make things rough, but then you go all soft and sweet--” (Sherlock scowls at being described as _sweet_ but decides to let it slide) “--so I change course. It’s… it’s a balancing act. I just keep sort of a running roster of activities in my head so I can switch things up on the fly if need be.”

“Oh.” Sherlock finds his throat has suddenly gone a bit dry and his cheeks feel a bit warm as he wonders what sort of delights John keeps on this mental list. Not for the first time, he’s overwhelmed with the desire to split John’s skull open and unfold his brain and read it like a chemistry equation, in simple black-and-white. _Oh,_ how glorious that would be…

John clears his throat, pulling Sherlock from his revery. “So I’m thinking maybe I head out to drop these files off with Molly. That’ll give me some time to get my head on straight. We can start the session when I get home. Alright?”

Sherlock nods in what he hopes is a cavalier fashion that in no way betrays the rather pressing tide of desire welling up inside him. He plops himself down at the desk and busies himself pretending to review case notes, all while observing John out of the corner of his eye as he prepares to head out.

“Hey, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” 

John’s paused with his hand on the doorknob, the medical reports tucked under his arm. “Here’s what’s going to happen: While I’m gone, you are going to drink a full glass of water. Next, you’re going to get yourself cleaned up in the shower. Don’t prep yourself and don’t use lube, I just want you to be ready for me when I get back. Then I want you to strip everything off our bed except the sheet. Don’t put on clothing. Then handcuff yourself to the headboard. Do you understand?”

It’s difficult to describe what happens next. It’s almost like in a theatre, when the stage lights dim to leave only the spotlight, focused on a single actor to deliver a rousing soliloquy. Or perhaps like a fog rolling in off the Thames, reducing everything in its path to a hazy blur. All Sherlock knows is that in that moment, everything else in the world drops away, leaving only _John._

“Yes. Yes, Captain.” He produces the words without thinking.

John grins. “Good. See you soon, sweetheart.”

He disappears out the door.

After a few stunned seconds, Sherlock shakes himself out of his stupor. What in the _hell_ was that?

Well. That’s the start of a session.

_Fascinating._

He mulls it over as he makes his way to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, willing his mind to stay clear. It was vital that he _analyze_ what John was doing in order to accurately replicate it.

So what had John done, exactly? He’d given him instructions. Clear, simple instructions, easy to follow, but ones that hinted at what the impending session would entail.

First, he’d ordered Sherlock to drink water. Making him take care of himself. Revealing that John, his Dom, wanted him healthy and ready to endure the rigors he was about to subject him to.

Next, the order to clean himself. Penetrative sex was on the menu, then, and the fact he’d been instructed not to prep himself or use lube was indicative that John would be taking the helm of that endeavor. Hardly unusual, but it also meant that he’d include foreplay to get Sherlock properly prepped; he wouldn’t be taking him immediately upon his arrival home.

Then, the order to strip the bed and remain nude. Catering to Sherlock’s exhibitionist tendencies. John wanted to _observe_ his surrender. Sherlock shivers at the thought.

And last, the handcuffs. They hadn’t used them in a while, and Sherlock finds himself _delighted_ at the prospect. Handcuffs meant more bondage was usually in order, a thought which makes him feel breathless with anticipation.

So. John’s instructions not only served as a way to get Sherlock into his submissive headspace, but as a tentative roadmap for what was ahead, giving Sherlock time to mentally prepare in his own way.

_Brilliant. Amazing. Fantastic._

Sherlock finishes his glass of water (turns out he _had_ been unusually parched; he was so _lucky_ to have such an observant partner) then proceeds to follow his remaining instructions in a state of vigilant hyper-awareness. He mustn’t check out during this session; that would negate the purpose entirely. It was essential to the Work that he remain focused on his objective.

By the time he’s fastening the cold metal of the cuffs around his own left wrist, he’s feeling rather confident about the situation. He’s aroused, of course, but his head feels clear and his Mind Palace functional. He slips the chain of the handcuffs through the slats of the headboard, then snaps the other cuff around his remaining wrist before reclining on the bed to wait for John’s return.

This part proves considerably more difficult than the preparation. Usually at this point in a session, he’d allow himself to float away into that beautiful place entirely detached from reality where he goes when he’s letting John dominate him, but this time, he mustn’t allow it. He mustn’t let his hard drive go offline, mustn’t let his Transport bully its way to take the steering wheel, mustn’t let his most basic impulses get the better of him. For the sake of the case, he must remain _aware._ He distracts himself reciting the atomic crystal structure of brass.

After a seeming eternity, he hears the front door open and close, and he allows himself an inward sigh of relief. At last, John was back, and they could _get on with it already._ As fascinating as this process was from a scientific perspective, Sherlock’s cock is _also_ quite eager to get in on the action, and he allows himself to hope that John’s planning on giving him some direct stimulation soon.

John’s footsteps echo down the hallway, and Sherlock permits himself an irrepressible full-body shiver as the door swings open and John strides confidently into the room.

His eyes rake up and down Sherlock’s nude, exposed body, gaze narrowing as though taking stock of the wares. It makes Sherlock feel objectified in a way he deems wholly unobjectional.

“Very nice. Very nice indeed.” John’s tone is pleasantly detached, as though he’s commenting on the ripeness of a tomato. He cocks his head a bit to the side as he makes his way towards the foot of the bed, casually removing his coat and tossing it over the chair by the wardrobe. “Spread your legs for me.”

God, _yes._ The way he says it, it’s so utterly _commanding,_ Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to draw his knees back towards his chest, presenting himself to John so wantonly that the thought of it makes him feel a bit light headed. He feels gorgeously helpless all spread out, his hands cuffed securely above his head.

John crosses his arms and looks down at him, eyes focused on Sherlock’s stiff cock and exposed hole. For what feels like an eternity he just _stares,_ and Sherlock suddenly feels so suffocatingly _desperate_ for his approval that he can’t help but arch his back and issue a little whine in the back of his throat. 

John smirks, and Sherlock takes note. _Withholding approval._ That simply made Sherlock all the more desperate for it. How very _interesting._ How very pleasant.

Finally, John seems to have decided he’s looked his fill, and he turns to make his way towards the closet. Sherlock scowls after him; he’d really been hoping that John was planning to touch him, but it seems that wasn’t in the cards. Not yet, anyway.

John takes his time rummaging about in the closet for God only knows what while Sherlock lies splayed and agitated on the bed, sending John strong mental vibes to _be quite quick about it, if he’d be so kind._ At long last John returns to the bedside, and Sherlock’s delighted to see he’s holding up two lengths of jute rope. 

“Going to tie up your legs now. Yes?”

“Yes.” Verbal consent. That much Sherlock’s familiar with.

John makes fast work of it, looping an elegant little _shibari_ knot around each of Sherlock’s ankles before affixing the rope to the corresponding bedpost. For a long time Sherlock had been hesitant about having his legs restrained (it used to make him feel claustrophobic), but lately he’s noticed John’s been _pushing_ him in this area. Never enough to cause him panic, but _just_ enough to test his boundaries, enough to make Sherlock feel _just_ outside the edge of his comfort zone, pushing himself ever so slightly further to conform to John’s will. Sherlock takes a new mental note on this for later analysis.

“There we go. Lovely. Struggle for me, yeah?” John pulls himself to full height and watches as Sherlock strains against his bindings, demonstrating his helplessness. “Good. Very pretty, sweetheart. Now. You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?”

“No, John.” There’s a slight waver in his voice that he industriously wills away.

“I’ve been thinking about that time I made you come just from nipple stimulation. Do you remember that?”

“Oh, God, yes.” Sherlock’s Mind Palace helpfully replays the encounter in a whirling montage of arousal: Sherlock reclined against John’s chest, cock throbbing obscenely in the cool air of the sitting room as John rolled the sensitive buds on his chest between his clever fingertips until Sherlock lost control and spilled all over his own exposed torso as John whispered words of graphic encouragement into his ear.

“That was lovely, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, John.”

“I only have one regret about the whole thing, and that’s that I wasn’t inside you at the time. You know how I’ve told you that I can _feel_ your hole tighten around my cock when I play with your tits?”

Sherlock swallows hard. “Y-y-yes.”

“I’m just curious how hard you would _clench_ for me if your tits were the only thing I was touching when you came.”

_“Oh.”_

“So I’d like to find out, if you’d be so amenable.”

“A-a-alright.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. This will be difficult. Painful. John will torture his nipples and overstimulate his chest and command him to come untouched, and Sherlock will have to obey. But he’ll do it. For John.

“Excellent.” John grins happily as though Sherlock’s just agreed to clean the bathtub. “Now, just need a few more things…” He disappears for a few minutes and Sherlock can hear him clamoring around the flat. He tries not to wonder what the hell else John is going to use on him.

At long last, John re-emerges, arms filled with a jumble of items that he promptly deposits in the chair across the room before Sherlock has any chance to process them.

“Excellent. Now, let’s see what I’m working with, here.” John lowers himself to perch on the edge of the mattress, peering down at Sherlock like he’s a patient on an exam table (the thought makes Sherlock’s cheeks flush). Then he reaches out and finally-- _finally_ \-- touches him.

It barely qualifies as a touch. He runs the rough pad of this thumb ever so gently around the rim of Sherlock’s areola, dainty tracing the point where the pale ivory of his chest gives way to the dusty pink of his nipple. The spot isn’t particularly sensitive, per se, but something about the feather-light drag of John’s single digit causes the flesh of his nipple to tighten, the nub in its centre hardening in anticipation. John smiles.

“Oh, beautiful. So sensitive. So pretty.” He traces his finger across Sherlock’s sternum to the other pec, then slowly repeats the process.

Sherlock heaves in a ragged breath and attempts to continue taking mental notes of how John is manipulating him. _Stimulation,_ yes, but also _tension, anticipation,_ and _praise._ All are quickly interweaving into an intricate web of domination that Sherlock is rapidly finding himself trapped in the centre of.

“Mmm. So responsive, so good for me.” John smiles down at Sherlock, and Sherlock preens and arches in response, doing his best to press his chest more firmly against John’s finger, desperately seeking more friction that what the single pad is currently providing. “A bit eager, are we? That’s all right, sweetheart, just relax. I’ll take such good care of you.” Sherlock whines again and bites his lip. He doesn’t want to complain, but _dammit, John--_

And then John dips his head and firmly sucks Sherlock’s left nipple into his mouth and bites down on the peaked tip.

“Nnnnnngah!” Sherlock thrashes against his bindings, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of sensation. It shouldn’t feel like much, Christ, John toys with his chest _all the time,_ but something about the unexpected intensity of such direct stimulation ignites a fire that radiates from his chest straight to his groin.

_“Mmmm.”_ John relinquishes the grip of his teeth but replaces it quickly with light kitten flicks of his tongue, teasing the pert nub with warm, wet strokes. Sherlock gasps and squirms in response; the initial pain of John’s bite had receded quickly, but it’s rapidly given way to a flare of overstimulation that causes his cock to harden impossibly further. He can feel a drop of precome land on his own abdomen. God, how was it possible John Watson could reduce him to _this_ by sucking on _a single nipple?!_

He doesn’t have much time to consider it. All too soon John’s mouth disappears, leaving Sherlock grimacing as the cool air of the bedroom comes into contact with his tender flesh. John doesn’t leave him much time to dwell on it, though; moments later his fingertips are clamping down and _twisting_ as his mouth moves on to Sherlock’s right nipple.

Sherlock howls and flails, but the bindings hold tight. He can hear John chuckling as he nibbles and tongues at his latest conquest, the clever fingers of his left hand keeping Sherlock’s other nipple hard with a series of sharp pinches and plucks. Sherlock grits his teeth and moans as he writhes, unsure of whether he wants to pull his chest away from John’s ministrations or push himself forward, wantonly begging for more, _more--_

All too soon and yet not soon enough, John sits up and relinquishes his grasp, cruelly depriving Sherlock of his _perfect_ fingers and mouth. He looks down at Sherlock’s chest with detached bemusement, then issues a quick nod. “Very nice. Look how hard your nipples are, sweetheart! Can you see them?” Sherlock manages to raise his head a few inches off the mattress to look down at where the inflamed buds are standing at attention, obscenely swollen against the flat planes of his chest.

“Mmm. Yes, John.” He lets his head fall back and heaves a restorative sigh; he needs to keep his wits about him.

“So gorgeous. Now. I have a fun new activity for us, love, if you’re feeling up to it?”

Sherlock’s heart is suddenly in his throat. “Yes, please.”

“Good.” John makes his way over to the chair in the corner, and Sherlock can hear him rummaging around. There’s a pause, then a strange metallic _snick,_ then John is back at his bedside, hovering over him with a lit candle in hand.

Oh, God.

It wasn’t just _any_ candle. It was _the_ candle, the candle they use for waxplay. And John’s lit it.

“I can see by the look on your face that you’ve already got a pretty good idea of what I’m about to do to you, sweetheart, but for the sake of safety, I’m going to review. Will you let me use this on your chest?”

Sherlock mentally considers it. He’s let John use wax on him before, of course, but it had been on his back and arsecheeks-- nowhere as sensitive as his nipples. Would the sensation even be pleasurable, or would the pleasure burn away and leave nothing but pain in its wake?

He swallows. “I-- I think so?”

John uses his free hand to reach out and ruffle Sherlock’s hair. “We’ll go slow, like we always do. Start out with warm, work our way up to hot. You can stop at any time; it doesn’t mean we’ll end the session, it just means we’ll pause and re-assess. One snap to pause. Two to stop. Understood?”

“One to pause, two to stop.”

“Very good. So lovely, so smart for me.” His gaze is impossibly fond. “Now here’s the tricky bit: I’m going to put my tags in your mouth, and I need you to remain quiet while I do this. I want you to simply stay still and silent and take what I’m giving you, and if you do that, you’ll get a reward. Does that sound alright?”

Fuck. What _really_ sounds good is screaming and thrashing and making a spectacle of himself while John has his way with him, but _no,_ John wants to watch him be _still_ and _good._ And more than anything in this mortal world, he wants to be _good_ for John. “Yes. Yes, please, John. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you.”

“Excellent.” John grins, and Sherlock feels his stomach flip in excited anticipation. “Open up, sweetheart.”

Sherlock complies, and John lifts his dog tags from where they hang around Sherlock’s neck and places them delicately on his tongue. “Suck.” Sherlock closes his mouth with John’s thumb still inside, and for a few brief, erotic seconds, he fellates John’s thumb along side his tags, flicking his tongue in smooth whorls around metal and flesh, delighting in the way the tastes combine on his palate. _Perfect._

“Mmph. Easy there, sweetheart, or you’ll get me too worked up to think.” John withdraws his thumb with a wet _pop,_ and Sherlock obediently closes his lips around the tags.

John reaches into the nightstand and pulls out the massage oil, dribbling a bit onto Sherlock's chest and pecs and brusquely smearing it about in a rather no-nonsense sort of way. “Alright. I’m going to start with warm wax and work my way hotter. Snap if it’s too much.”

Sherlock nods, and closes his eyes.

The feeling of warm wax spattering against his sternum is... unobjectionable. It’s not so different than when John comes on him there, he thinks to himself, and sighs in contentment at the thought. He remembers one time a few weeks ago when John had jerked himself off onto Sherlock’s throat (after muttering something about his _bloody coat collar_ ) while holding Sherlock down by the hair, and then he’d--

There’s a sudden, searing flash of sensation as what feels for all the world to be _molten lava_ comes into direct contact with his right nipple. It’s a crippling, _exquisite_ agony, the kind that makes him want to curl in on himself but he _can’t,_ he’s bound and restrained and utterly at John’s mercy. His eyes fly open as he heaves rapid, uneven breaths through his nose, _willing_ his mouth to stay firmly shut around the cool discs resting on his tongue.

“Oh, fuck. Is that good, sweetheart? Your cock got _so hard_ when I did that, _Jesus.”_ John looks a bit startled, almost perplexed as he stares down at Sherlock’s trembling Transport.

Sherlock nods slowly. It _was_ good. It was _pain,_ yes, but that special sort of pain born of overstimulation that sends his sex drive into high gear for no reason he’s ever been able to discern. Whatever wires are crossed in his brain that make him want these things, it’s suddenly blindingly clear John’s found a rather direct way to set them alight with sizzling current.

“Mmm, yeah. Again. Hold still.”

More heat. More heat and pain and _pleasure, oh god the pleasure, it’s torture and rapture and everything all at once_ and in an instant his nervous system is shot to hell as every fibre of his transport lights up with that impossible invisible electricty that only John can spark in him.

He arches, yes, he arches and struggles and thrashes against his bindings, but he also _breathes_ and _focuses_ and lets the sensations pull him under. Above him, John’s face is stern and focused. 

The wax grows hotter. The world grows dimmer.

Just when he feels that it’s all about to give way-- to implode, or explode, or shatter or collapse or fall completely, irrevocably apart--

John blows out the candle, and clambers on to the bed. He throws a leg over Sherlock’s chest and unfastens his trousers, revealing his throbbing cock. The sight of it makes Sherlock feel lightheaded with want.

“Fuck. So good for me. So good for me, letting me make such a mess of your tits. Shh, hold still, sweetheart.” With that, John reaches down to shove Sherlock’s pecs together while resolutely slotting his turgid member between them, and begins to thrust.

He thumbs at Sherlock’s aching nipples as he does so, and Sherlock moans at the sensation of the hardened wax cracking and falling away. The slide of John’s prick is eased by the massage oil, and Sherlock stares down dizzily at where the moist tip is emerging and disappearing in rhythic undulations into the forced cleavage of his ravaged chest. It’s hypnotic, and he finds himself spellbound.

“Fuck, fuck, _yes, God, so perfect, so good for me, so good, mmm, yeah, yeah, oh, love yes, yes--”_

He’s just allowed himself to absently wonder if John’s about to come like this when suddenly, John’s weight evaporates from his chest as he deftly maneuvers off of Sherlock’s bound form and takes his place at the side of the bed once more.

“Christ, Sherlock, that was lovely, so lovely.” He reaches up and tenderly lifts his tags from between Sherlock’s lips. “You feeling good, sweetheart?”

Sherlock finds it difficult to speak around the lump of desire lodged firmly in his throat. He wants to lie, to say, _Yes, fine, John, all good, it’s all fine, please proceed,_ but the honest-to-God truth is that he’s so hard it hurts, and the arousal spooling in his abdomen is veering dangerously close to the edge of the line where _pleasure_ gives way to _discomfort._ And he can’t lie to John. Not when they’re doing this.

“I’m. John, I’m… I’m too close. I can’t… it’s too much.”

John gives a solemn nod and casts his gaze downward to where Sherlock’s cock protrudes heavy and throbbing between his bound legs. “Oh, love, I can see that. I think we’d best relieve a bit of this pressure, hmm?”

“God, yes, please, please John…”

“Shhhh, it’s alright, going to take such good care of you, now. Going to get you ready for me, alright?”

Sherlock nods blearily. Whatever John needs to do to move this along, Sherlock is fully onboard.

To his surprise, John starts by unfastening the ends of the ropes binding his ankles from the bedposts. He massages Sherlock’s feet once he’s done, bending and flexing his ankles, checking the circulation. Sherlock remains still and pliant, letting John do his work.

“Very nice. I’m going to bind your legs completely now, love. Is that alright?”

“Mmmhmm.”

With that, John guides Sherlock’s right leg into a bent position, until his heel comes nearly into contact with the back of his own thigh. “Hold.”

Sherlock holds. John takes hold of the rope dangling from his ankle and masterfully, carefully weaves a simple diamond pattern down his shin and around his thigh, locking Sherlock’s leg in a bent position. Sherlock trembles under his touch, but stays calm.

“Good. Very nice. Can you try and straighten your leg, now?” Sherlock does, but John’s knots hold fast; he can scarcely move a millimeter. He lets out a groan of supplication.

John says nothing in response. He just makes his way around to the other side of the bed and repeats the process with Sherlock’s left leg, immobilising him in that sweet, intoxicating way that only _John_ can do. Sherlock breathes and relaxes, focusing on not letting his fight-or-flight response kick into high gear as he allows himself to be restrained. He will be good. So good.

John steps back to admire his handiwork. Sherlock’s legs are splayed open, gloriously entrapped in the web of jute rope, and his arms remain steadfastly attached to the headboard via the handcuffs. He whimpers and _presents,_ his cock throbbing in response to his current position.

“God, so pretty, so good, so beautiful. Mmm, you look awfully hard, still.” John approaches the bed pensively, admiring Sherlock’s prominent erection. “Do you still feel too close?” He reaches out and closes his fingers ever so gently around Sherlock’s eager member, and Sherlock all but bucks off the bed as the heady sensation ricochets through his body.

“God, FUCK, yes, John, so close, FUCK…” It’s taking every ounce of stamina he possesses to not just completely lose control.

John immediately relinquishes his hold on Sherlock’s cock, tutting nervously. “Mmm, I can see that. I think I’ll just relieve a little pressure for you, alright? Would you like that?”

John was going to let him _come?_ Already?! Sherlock can scarcely believe his luck.

“Nnngh, yes, please…”

“Okay, then.” John climbs onto the bed to kneel between Sherlock’s spread legs. “Let’s get you some relief.”

And without fanfare or hesitation, he takes his right hand and presses Sherlock’s left leg up and back, opening him wider. Then he takes his left forefinger and presses into Sherlock’s hole in one firm, brutal shove.

Sherlock wails and writhes, but John grips the bindings on his leg to hold him steady. The sudden intrusion makes it feel like his entire passage is on fire, despite the fact a single digit is hardly the widest penetration he’s endured. The difference is that John’s not prepped him _at all;_ no lube, no saliva, not even a quick lick to his entrance to ease the way. It feels almost unbearably raw.

“Hold still. Be good.” John’s tone is so utterly commanding that Sherlock all but melts into it. The next thing he knows, John’s twisting his wrist and angling his finger and then pressing down _directly_ onto Sherlock’s prostate.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Sherlock throws his head back and arches. He knows attempting to squirm away would be completely futile, but even so, he’s overwhelmed with the urge to _escape._

“That’s it, there we go. Just going to let a little bit out, make you more comfortable, okay? Shhh. Shhh. Just let me. Just let me.” With that, John begins to massage the oversensitized bundle of nerves buried deep inside him, with expert precision and _just_ enough pressure that Sherlock feels like he’s about to black out.

John’s milked him before, but it feels _different_ this time, without all the prep and lube and foreplay. It’s bewilderingly erotically clinical, like it’s simply a standard procedure that John performs every day. The thought makes Sherlock feel weak.

“There we go, very nice. You going to let me push a little out of you, love?”

Sherlock huffs and his fingers clench around the chain of the handcuffs. “Trying,” he manages to muster from between gritted teeth. Being milked was so utterly unlike having an orgasm; it was imperative that he coax his body to let go _just enough_ to provide himself some relief without the intensity of a full-blown orgasm. It’s a delicate balance that he and John have been diligently practicing to perfect.

“It’s okay, just relax. Relax for me, _there_ we go, oh, that’s good. What do you need to get there, sweetheart?”

“Nnngh. Fuck. I’m close, John, but I think I need… gah, _augh_ … another finger?”

“Okay. Okay, shh.” John withdraws his forefinger and then sucks it into his own mouth alongside his middle finger, wetting them both lightly. Then he reaches down and presses them both inside, guiding them directly to Sherlock’s prostate, which he proceeds to stimulate with sharp, brisk circles.

“Oh. Oh yes, oh yes, like that--- nnngh, like that!” His channel burns and clenches from the agonising lack or prep, but the pain quickly folds into pleasure within his blazing neurons. “Little more--”

“Bear down, love, like this--” John grabs the binding around Sherlock’s leg and pulls his prone body resolutely down onto his prodding fingers.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh-- _ohhhhhhhhh--”_ And with that, Sherlock can feel the first slow trickle of come pulse from his tip and slide smoothly down his fire-hot length.

_“There_ we go! Oh, very nice, _very_ nice, just let it happen, love. Little more now, hold on--” John’s fingers twist and _press_ again, and Sherlock wails as a second small emission leaks from his cock.

“You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart! I’m going to get just a little bit more, okay? Shh. Shh. Little more, now.” He presses again and Sherlock’s Mind Palace goes dark, the world reduced to the trickle of semen he can feel dribbling onto his abdomen in a steady stream of ecstacy.

John’s fingers disappear and Sherlock blinks his eyes open, firmly aware of the fact that he’s been quickly reduced to a sweaty, trembling mess of nerves.

“Feel better?”

“Hngh.” Sherlock lets his head drop to the side. He wants to bury his face in the sheets, but he can’t roll over far enough, so he settles for burrowing into the safety of his own bicep.

“You look much better, love, not so hard anymore. I think you’re ready to continue, now.”

Sherlock moans and sinks his teeth into the tender muscle of his own arm. Yes. He wants more, but he wants to stop, but he can’t, he can’t, he _needs,_ needs John, needs _John._

He musters a tiny nod.

“Excellent. Now, where did I put the…” John disappears from Sherlock’s peripheral vision, but he’s too far gone to track his movements. He focuses on being still, on the grit of the rope against the flesh of his legs, the bite of the metal cuffs against the bone of his wrists. This is _perfect._

“Ah! Here we are.” John’s found whatever it is he was looking for, and Sherlock vaguely registers the sound of him stripping off his clothes. Does this mean John was going to fuck him now? Excellent, _excellent_ indeed…

John clambers onto the bed, gorgeously nude, muscles rippling and turgid cock swinging heavily between his legs. _“Gah.”_ Sherlock can’t quite formulate a word to vocalise his pleasure, but he parts his legs as wide as he can, and John seems to get the gist.

“Good. Now. Do you remember these?” He holds up something in his left hand, and Sherlock blinks up at it uncomprehendingly. “It’s the nipple clamps from the Hassan case,” John helpfully supplies. “Now, I know we haven’t used them during a session since, but I was thinking tonight they might be _just_ the ticket, don’t you agree?”

Sherlock blinks. His chest is already in agony, could he really endure much more? But he remembers John’s objective: he wants Sherlock to come from nipple stimulation alone. And to do that, he must endure more stimulation. It’s imperative.

“Yes, John. Brilliant, John.” The words feel thick and wet on his tongue, and he flushes at how obviously _drunk_ with desire he is.

“It is quite brilliant, if I do say so, myself. Now hold still.” Without warning, John leans forward, clips in hand, and snaps them into place on Sherlock’s already-inflamed buds.

Sherlock screams. He screams and screams and _screams_ and it’s pain and pain and _pain,_ and he can’t _think,_ he can’t _breathe,_ it’s agony, God, and suddenly he’s so hard he feels like his cock is going to burst right then and there, and it all devolves quickly into a swirling whirlpool of sensation dragging him down, down, down…

John’s brushing the tears away from his cheeks, stroking his fingers calmly through his hair, murmuring sweet words of quiet reassurance to counter Sherlock’s desperate cries. It anchors him, a life jacket in the storm, and he grabs onto it and lets himself be pulled back up.

John’s face swims into focus. “You with me, love?”

“Y-yeah. Yes. Hurts. Fuck, John, _hurts.”_

John’s brow furrows. “Good hurt or bad hurt?”

Sherlock is quick to reassure him. “Good hurt. Good hurt, but hurts so _much, God, fuck, John--”_

“I know, I know love, this is a lot, but you’re doing so well for me! Do you think you can keep going?”

The searing pain in his chest has receded to a dull throb. He knows that any tension whatsoever on the chain that connects the clamps will cause a new wave of unbridled agony, but for now it lays innocently across his chest, loose and unassuming.

He nods muzzily.

“Okay. So here’s what I’m going to do.” John reaches down to the foot of the mattress and produces a new length of rope. It’s short and thin. Sherlock can’t imagine what John is going to do with it; he feels completely immobilized already.

“I’m going to connect the bindings on your legs with this rope,” he explains simply, knotting one end to the rope holding Sherlock’s right leg in place. Then he threads the rope up and around the chain between the clamps before affixing it to Sherlock’s other leg.

“See what I’ve done here? If you keep your legs up nice and close to your chest, there’s no tension on the chain. But if you bring them down, even a bit, the rope will pull on the chain and that will pull on the clamps.”

“Oh, God.” Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He pulls his thighs resolutely back towards his chest to keep the rope lax, agonizingly aware that if he loses track of this objective, the clamps would snap away from his nipples and he-- he shudders at the thought.

“All good, love? You understand what’s happening?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, you can lower your legs to pull off the clamps and come whenever you want. I’m leaving that up to you. You’re in charge of that bit, alright? My job is going to be to put my cock in you and then bring you to the edge. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Easy, now.” Sherlock blinks his eyes open just in time to see John bring his palm up to his own mouth and give it a quick lick, then lower it to his shaft. The next thing he knows, he can feel the blunt head of John’s cock pressing against his rim, stretching him open.

“Gah!” Christ, was John actually going to take him almost _completely unprepped?_ Sherlock’s always asking him to-- make it more painful, more overwhelming-- but John was always reluctant, so worried about causing damage. But this time, he seems willing to take Sherlock up on the challenge.

“There we go. Steady, now. Steady…” John’s fingers tangle in the bindings around Sherlock’s legs to keep him from wriggling, then he carefully pushes his pelvis forward.

Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head, and his mouth flies open in a silent wail. The sensation of John’s member forcing its way into his almost-dry channel is a searing burn, a stretch so consuming he feels lost in it. He wants to lower his legs, to adjust the angle of penetration to be more pleasurable, but realises immediately that would yank the chain on his chest taut, and he simply couldn’t take it. So instead he arches, writhes, and breathes.

“Good, good, almost there…” John’s voice is calm, so damn _calm._ “Mmmm, look at you taking me so prettily, hmm? So good for me, love, take it, shhhh, shhh, just a little further-- _oh!”_ And with that, John shoves in to the hilt, pubis pressed firmly against Sherlock’s quivering thighs.

_“Christ_ you’re tight, oh my God, Sherlock, oh my _God…”_ Sherlock manages to blink up and watch as John’s pleasure manifests on his face, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “Fuck, _fuck…_ Wanted to feel how tight you could be for me, love, but god _damn,_ you feel so incredible…” He swallows and rocks a bit, not thrusting, not moving in and out of Sherlock, but simply adjusting him to the overwhelming stretch. “You with me?”

Sherlock nods blearily. The ache is his arse is agony. He’s reminded dimly of the way his own back felt in Serbia when the guards took to him with whips-- flayed open, exposed, unbearably vulnerable. But this is so different-- instead of feeling _afraid,_ he feels so _safe,_ knowing it’s _John_ doing this to his body, _John_ drawing out this pain and spinning it into pleasure, _John_ to whom he is submitting. He’s safe here. So safe.

“Okay. Want to feel you clench for me, love.” And with that, John licks both of his thumbs and then reaches forward to brush them ever so delicately against Sherlock’s abused nipples.

The first wave of _pleasurepain_ seems to take them both by surprise. The stimulation of his chest seems hardwired to the pleasure pooling in his groin, and he can feel his channel squeeze tight in sympathetic delectation. The newfound contraction makes John’s prick feel overwhelmingly huge inside of him.

Above him, John’s eyes grow wide and awestruck. “Oh, _fuck,_ sweetheart, do that again.” He runs his thumbs over Sherlock’s swollen nubs once more, and as if on cue, his arse contracts in a singular pulse around John’s turgid member.

“Nnnnnngh…” Sherlock can’t form words anymore. He’s spellbound by the rapture of his Transport, utterly transfixed by this transcendent journey of sensation. He grips the chain of the handcuffs tight, and endures.

John toys with his nipples relentlessly as Sherlock clenches in rhythmic undulations in time with John’s ministrations. They’re both sweating and swearing, eyes locked together and they revel in this newfound mutual delight.

Then something changes. Sherlock isn’t quite sure what it is because he knows for a fact that John’s not moving his cock so much as a millimeter, holding it perfectly still and simply reveling in the contractions of Sherlock’s channel, so it’s not as if he’s being stimulated by John’s thrusting. All he knows is that suddenly, his body needs to come. And John had said that he could, whenever he wanted, and so he has no reason to hold back.

Before he can give himself time to think or brace for the onslaught of pain, he lets his thighs fall away from his chest, rocking his own pelvis to bring John’s prick into direct contact with his prostate. The tension on the rope pulls the chain of the clamps, and for one infinite moment the ends hold fast to the flesh of his chest, triggering a wave of agony so acute he wants to pass out.

And then the clamps snap free, and his channel squeezes down on John’s cock so tight Sherlock feels he might burst with the fullness, and then he’s coming and coming and _coming,_ a tsunami of ecstasy so intense that his nerves feel somehow too delicate to absorb its magnitude. It seems to last forever, ripples of sensation radiating from his arse to his cock to his chest and back again, a feedback loop that spurns his release on and _on…_

He’s not even sure he’s quite finished when he feels John’s hand close around his neck. He doesn’t cut off his airflow, not entirely-- he puts just enough pressure there to hold Sherlock in place, and to remind him of who is in charge. Sherlock bares his throat and leans into the touch.

And then John thrusts. Only twice, that’s all it takes, but the drag of red-hot flesh against his tender insides causes the tears in Sherlock’s eyes to spill over and it’s suddenly all dangerously close to the brink of being too much, too much--

No sooner has the thought crossed Sherlock’s mind than John is shouting and spilling, the warm bloom of his release extinguishing the flames of agony licking along the surface of Sherlock’s passage. John’s fingers squeeze tight around Sherlock’s throat and Sherlock surrenders completely, lost in the perfect bliss of their union.

The next time he blinks his eyes open, it’s to the flushed, delighted face of John pressing kisses against Sherlock’s sweat-soaked cheeks and forehead.

“Christ almighty, Sherlock. That was fucking incredible.” John pushes himself back to sit on his heels and hastily withdraws his prick without fanfare; Sherlock hisses at the sensation. “Hold still for a second, yeah? Just want to check you over here.” John’s tone is casual and conversational. Sherlock feels utterly discombobulated.

He manages a meek nod as John reaches over into the drawer of the nightstand and procures the lube, squeezing a bit onto his pointer finger. “I’m going to use lube right now, okay? Taking you unprepped is still risky even if we’re careful about it, so I’ve got to be pretty thorough.”

Sherlock swallows and musters a gravelly, “Alright.” 

John grins and reaches down between his legs. “Okay. Deep breath.” Sherlock breathes slowly, deeply as John examines him. He makes pretty quick work of it from what Sherlock can deduce, but he feels so out of it he can’t be sure. All he knows is that what feels like mere seconds later, John is issuing a pleased hum. “I think we’re all good. You may be a little sore, but there’s clearly no major tearing. Here, let me untie your legs…”

Gone are the bindings, and the handcuffs, and Sherlock stretches out his arms and legs dazedly as John briskly checks his hands and feet for circulation. “All good here. Feel okay? Hurt anywhere?”

Sherlock wills his brain to perform to check in on his Transport and then provide a coherent response. His limbs are a bit stiff, but there’s no real pain. His nipples are so raw they’re numb, and there’s a dull, aching _throb_ in his backside, but… is he hurt? “No. Sore, but not hurt. ‘M okay.”

“Excellent.” John clambers out of bed and gives Sherlock’s hair an affectionate ruffle before disappearing into the bathroom. He emerges a moment later and tosses a wet flannel at Sherlock, who is so taken off-guard that it lands with an unappetizingly moist _plop_ on his come-streaked stomach before he can even consider lifting a hand to catch it. “I’m gonna rinse off in the shower real quick, then do you want to go over those employment records that Greg dropped off this afternoon?”

Sherlock blinks. He has no idea what the hell John is talking about, but he also doesn’t have the energy to argue. “Okay.” His mouth feels cottony and his head is foggy.

“It’s a plan.” John gives him an impish wink and then disappears with the clack of the door, followed by the sound of the pipes rattling to life.

Sherlock tries to breathe. Why had John just _left_ him? He didn’t want to take Sherlock to the shower to wash him? No. No, he’d _used_ him and _left_ him, like a tissue he’d masturbated into and then tossed carelessly into the rubbish bin. That’s all Sherlock was to him, after all. Just something to pump his come into and then walk away as soon as he was done.

But should he be all that surprised? This was John Watson. John _Three-Continents_ Watson. He got his nickname because he’d shagged so many women from so many different places, Sherlock wasn’t stupid, he knew that. Sherlock wasn’t special, after all; John had had sex with dozens of people before he’d met Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t special to John like John was to Sherlock. Sherlock had given his virginity to John. John had taken it, but that didn’t mean Sherlock was _special_ to him. John loved to fuck. And just because Sherlock made himself consistently available for John to fuck didn’t mean John _owed_ him anything. Sherlock was such a slag for John Watson that all it took was one word from him and Sherlock was on his back with his legs spread begging to be defiled, and John would do it, John would defile him, use him and make him dirty and sore, and then John was _done,_ and Sherlock was _here, useless, abandoned_ and _alone_ but that was only because John didn’t _need_ Sherlock the way Sherlock _needed_ John. Sherlock was so _weak_ to want more. But he didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t John’s fault that he was this way.

He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He picks up the flannel and wipes his own come off his pale, concave stomach, over the scar from the bullet hole left there. He can feel John’s semen leaking out of him and the thought makes him want to cry. He should clean that up, too, he thinks, but he doesn’t really want to stand up, and his arse hurts so badly he’s fairly certain he couldn’t stomach it if he tried.

Great. So he’d just sit here in his own filth, then.

The bathroom door opens and John emerges in a cloud of steam with a towel wrapped around his waist, eyes bright and refreshed and sporting an enthusiastic grin. He stops dead in his tracks, the euphoria slipping from his face like a mask.

“... Sherlock? What’s wrong?” His voice is laced with cautious trepidation, like he’s concerned about spooking a wild animal.

“Nothing.” Sherlock doesn’t feel like explaining.

John cocks his head appraisingly to the side. “You’re crying.”

Sherlock lifts his fingers to his cheeks and notes that they’re wet. He’s not _crying_ -crying, no embarrassing sobs or dramatic sniffling. It’s as if his eyes have simply sprung a leak. How odd. He hastily wipes the tears away.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Sherlock, talk to me. Are you hurt? Are you lying to me? Is something wrong?” He’s come up close to Sherlock now, and Sherlock can smell the heady notes of soap and shampoo and the faint musk of something distinctly _John_ floating off of him in warm, reassuring waves. He wants to wrap his arms around John’s waist and hold him helplessly, but that would be pathetic.

“I’m… I’m… just a little… I’ll be alright. I just need a minute to… to collect myself. Then we can. We can get back to work.” Yes. Work. John _needed_ him for the Work. John could not do the Work without him.

“Sherlock? Look at me.” Sherlock blinks up at him, and John cups his face in his hands, eyes reading Sherlock’s expression like he’s an open book. “Hey there. Sweetheart, are you… are you under?”

Sherlock swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, a little bit, I think. I think I’m… fuck. John, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“Shit, sweetheart, shit--” The next thing he knows John is pulling him up into his arms, folding him carefully into his tender embrace. “Sherlock, I am _so sorry._ I thought you were just playing along while you were taking mental notes. I didn’t realise-- _fuck._ Here, lie down, love, shhh, nice and easy, shhh…” 

Sherlock complies thoughtlessly, letting John gently guide him back into the welcoming warmth of the sheets. “That’s it, love, so beautiful, so good for me, easy there…” Sherlock all but melts into the words.

John warms the flannel once more and washes him down in soft, loving strokes. He’s so careful and cautious as he cleans between Sherlock’s cheeks, stroking his thigh soothingly as he murmurs words of praise and reminds him to _breathe._ Sherlock breathes and lets John wash him until he is finally clean again.

And when he is done, John tells Sherlock to relax and recover a bit while he makes him something to eat. Sherlock floats on a lazy river of dopamine until John reappears with a full glass of water and grilled cheese sandwich. He helps Sherlock sit up and keeps one arm wrapped around him reassuringly as he feeds him the sandwich, one delicious bite at a time. Sherlock licks at John’s fingers as John nuzzles his neck, telling him how _good_ and _perfect_ and _clever_ and _amazing_ he is. Then Sherlock drinks the water and John turns out the lights and pulls the duvet over them, and holds Sherlock in his strong arms as the darkness rises up to meet them, until all is still and calm once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments I'M SO BORED


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL that was an unexpected hiatus! So sorry for the wait-- hope this chapter can make it up to you!
> 
> There are some references in this chapter that call out characters and events from previous installments; most notably, Victor Trevor from "Absolution" and Javier from "High." That said, it's not essential to have read them to get the gist of what's going on here.
> 
> And last, heed the tags-- there's some dabbling in encounters outside their monogamous pairing here, but don't fret; it's ALL for the Work!

“Bloody buggering _FUCK!”_

John initially startles as the shout reverberates down the hallway, but settles back into his chair as the verbal tirade is quickly punctuated by the sound of the bedroom door slamming recklessly into the wall, followed abruptly by the echo of Sherlock’s bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as he stomps his way into the sitting room.

“What bloody time is it?”

John doesn’t even bother to turn around. “It’s twelve past eight.”

“TWELVE PAST EIGHT? You let me SLEEP for THIRTEEN BLOODY HOURS?”

“I did. You obviously needed it.” He turns the page of his newspaper and takes a measured sip of coffee.

“NEEDED it? No, John, what I NEEDED was to spend the night working the CASE, not indulging in useless mortal impulses!”

John sighs and resigns himself to managing the situation, depositing the newspaper on the arm of his chair and rising to make his way to the kitchen, carefully sidestepping the (rather adorably) disheveled detective currently glaring daggers in his direction.

He picks up the French press and pours some coffee into a mug, deposits two sugar cubes into it, and gives it a stir. “I think your Transport has very different ideas about what you categorise as _‘useless impulses.’”_

He offers the mug to Sherlock, who snatches it out of his hand with a look of disdain (then dutifully takes a spiteful sip). “The _point_ is, I should have spent last night reviewing Molly’s notes on the medical records--”

“Which she’s dropping off in”-- John hazards a glance at his watch-- “sixteen minutes. So last night there was nothing to review.”

“Then I should have been indexing the real estate records by date--”

“Done. I finished that this morning while the coffee was brewing. They’re on the desk.”

“Well, then I ought to have been running background checks on the management at Splay--”

“You know Greg’s taking care of that, he promised to send over the intel by this afternoon” --Sherlock opens his mouth to protest-- “Which I’m sure you’ll agree gives us _plenty_ of time to review it before tonight’s operation, as the club doesn’t open until ten.”

Sherlock’s jaw snaps shut and he takes another begrudging sip of coffee before stalking into the sitting room to poke at the files John had diligently organised on the desk.

“I’m making toast. You’re having some.”

“Fine.”

“And not a mandate, just a suggestion: You _may_ want to shower up and put on some proper clothes before Molly gets here.” As much as he wishes he could let Sherlock spend the day just as he is now-- wild hair and low-slung pajama bottoms perfectly complementing the beautiful bruises that have blossomed around his wrists and across his chest and smelling _distinctly_ of the rich musk of sex-- he’s fairly certain Molly might not appreciate being privvy to _quite_ that much information about their extracurricular activities.

With a disgruntled _harumph,_ Sherlock turns on his heel and disappears back down the hall. John notes with satisfaction that he’d taken the coffee with him.

By the time Molly arrives, Sherlock is utterly transformed: hair coiffed, impeccably dressed, and so focused on the case that he forgoes the pleasantries altogether, all but snatching the medical reports out of her hand before she’s so much as uttered a proper _Good morning._ John mollifies her with a cup of coffee and a friendly chat while Sherlock blazes through her notes at a pace John would once have deemed impossible to absorb any information whatsoever, but quickly learned to adjust his expectations when it came to Sherlock.

_“Acetylcholine?”_ Sherlock interjects sharply from across the room, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Molly effortlessly transitions from her inquiry about Rosie’s latest zoological obsession (tigers) and turns to face Sherlock.

“That’s the only common denominator I could find-- all the victims had heightened levels of it. Most weren’t high enough to be fatal, and on some charts it wasn’t indicated at all, seeing as you’d have to be looking for something like that to find it. That said, in some instances the levels were high enough to be toxic; I was honestly shocked that the medical examiners who performed the initial autopsies didn’t highlight it in their notes. It’s… odd. But you’ll see that those with the highest levels all had one thing in common--”

“Andrej Symanski.”

“Who?” John has lost the conversation completely.

“The name of the medical examiner,” Molly interjects helpfully. “He signed off on the four reports where the acetylcholine levels were fatally high.”

_“Fatally_ high?” The notion is flabbergasting. “But that would mean--”

“A Novichock agent,” Sherlock confirms solemnly.

John blinks. “Why the hell would any of these people have been poisoned with a _Russian nerve agent?_ The Craneworthy case was domestic; he was embezzling funds from a charity for bloody _police widows,_ it’s not like the Kremlin had a stake in any of it.”

“That we know of,” Sherlock retorts. “Fifteen people are dead-- whatever was going on, it clearly wasn’t small potatoes. The latest string of victims includes an MI6 agent. As I suspected all along, there’s clearly something more going on than meets the eye.”

Despite himself, John shudders. He’s used to chasing down murderers and psychopaths, but this was something far more nefarious than that, and the reality of what’s at stake looms before him, unavoidable and sure.

“We need to be careful here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in obvious disdain. “No need to be _careful_ when I’m always _correct--”_

“I mean it, Sherlock. Whatever’s going on here, it’s big. We can’t be flagrant in our pursuits or cavalier with our allies. We need all the help we can get on this one.”

Molly reaches out to rest her hand reassuringly on John’s arm before rising to her feet. “I’ll let you boys get to it. Call me if there’s anything else I can do; Greg already texted to say he’d be in touch.”

“Ta, Molly. We’ll reach out soon.”

“Please do.” She turns and pauses with her hand on the doorknob before turning back, her gaze steady and sure. “Oh, and John? Be careful.”

The rest of the day passes in a flurry of activity. Sherlock disappears down a rabbit hole of research on organophosphate poisoning and cross-referencing the autopsies, and John busies himself reviewing the background checks on the owners of Splay, which Greg delivers in person with a flourish of self-important urgency. Unfortunately there’s not much to them; no reason to suspect the owners were tied to Craneworthy, government conspiracy, or (ludicrously enough, John thinks to himself) international intrigue.

He’s so lost in the work that he nearly jumps out of his skin when Sherlock suddenly slaps his laptop shut and springs to his feet. “We should get dressed. I’ll lay out your clothes on the bed.”

John uses all his willpower to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself, ta.”

“Please, John. Only one of us is a master of disguise, and that’s me. I’ve devised the perfect cover for you.”

John heaves a withering sigh. “Fine. Though this better not be like the time you got to go undercover as Captain Hook and made me be Smee.”

“...Would you consider Smee more or less distressing than nipple clamps?” He ducks just in time to avoid the pillow John’s chucked at him.

To his credit, Sherlock actually _had_ exercised a modicum of self-control for once. For John he selects a simple pair of black jeans (which admittedly Sherlock had helped him pick out a few years ago, but _still_ ) and John’s tightest black t-shirt, plus his worn combat boots. John slips on the cuffs and collar with a strange tingle of the illicit-- was _this_ how Sherlock felt when he was preparing to submit to him? The feeling is warm and fluttery and oddly alluring, and he has to physically shake it from his head; he needed to keep his wits about him for their mission tonight. No matter what, he knows he has to focus on the Work-- that was their vow to one another.

John emerges from the bedroom into the hallway, where he nearly collides with a harried-looking Sherlock. He’d changed as well-- into his slimmest black bespoke suit and a black silk shirt, his hair perfectly groomed into tame ringlets, eyes bright with the thrill of an impending chase. 

John’s cock gives a traitorous throb. _Down, boy._

“Are you nearly ready? We’ve still got to do your makeup.”

“My who what now?”

“Your makeup, John, don’t be daft.”

“Sherlock, I really don’t think I need--”

“I have a _vision,_ John, and it is imperative that we adhere to it, lest it break my concentration on the portrayal of my _character.”_

“It’s a _nightclub,_ Sherlock, not your bloody _West End debut--”_

“What, are you going to call me a _drama queen_ again?”

“Hardly my fault when your hair looks like that.”

_“Excuse_ me, I’m the world’s foremost consulting detective--”

“Thought you said you were the world’s _only_ consulting detective--”

“This is an _international_ situation that requires my _international_ reputation!”

There’s a beat where they both freeze, eyes locked, faces contorted in mutual antagonizm.

Then they both burst out laughing.

“God dammit, Sherlock, _fine._ Paint my fucking face. Hardly the weirdest thing I’ve let you do to me.” John chuckles to himself as Sherlock grabs his hand and leads him into the bathroom with a skip in his step.

It’s actually not bad. By _makeup,_ it appeared Sherlock just meant _smudged black eyeliner,_ which John actually finds to be unobjectionable when he sees the whole ensemble together for the first time in their full-length mirror, Sherlock eyeing his expression smugly over his shoulder. Something about the eyeliner gives a hint of deviousness to an otherwise relatively straightforward outfit; The collar and cuffs suddenly look considerably more menacing when offset by the coal-dark rings around his eyes. He looks… _oddly dangerous,_ he concludes with a smile. Well, holy shit. Sherlock had pulled it off again.

“You like it?” Sherlock’s low baritone seems to reverberate in the hollow of John’s chest, above which his heart is beating hot and steady.

He swallows. “I do.”

“So do I.”

And for a split second, the wall disappears. The wall that they put up between each other the moment Sherlock takes a case, the wall that makes them _partner-ally-backup_ instead of _partner-lover-mate._ The wall that doesn’t destroy the heat, but that smolders with it, consistent and sure. For a moment, it’s gone.

John looks. And breathes. Sherlock looks and breathes, too.

Then his mobile pings. It’s the car.

Sherlock’s voice rings steady but falsely light. “Are you ready?”

John grins. “Oh God, yes.”

The club is actually considerably classier than the website had made it appear, John’s forced to admit, as they sign in at an imposing oak desk in the designated Drawing Room. The site had made it seem borderline gauche, but in-person, the decor was elegant and high-end, and the atmosphere alluring and inviting. He supposes there’s a reason that a veritable who’s-who of the London club scene were included among the list of rumoured clientele.

“Mr. Holmes?” A striking woman with jet-black hair fashioned into a silky low ponytail complimenting her immaculately form-fitting black suit emerges from the hallway. “My name is Grace, and I’ll be your concierge this evening. If you and your guest would follow me?”

They exchange a brief glance, and John gives a resolute nod. Sherlock bows his head appreciatively. “Gladly, Grace. Thank you.”

They proceed down a dimly-lit hallway, Grace’s heels echoing sharply against the black marble floor before making an abrupt left into a small room with three velvet curtains lining the far wall.

“I understand it’s your first time with us, Mr. Holmes?”

“It is.”

“Excellent, we’re delighted to have you. So this is our dressing room; some of our clientele prefer to change their clothes here, rather than travel in their evening wear. Do you or your guest wish to use it?”

Sherlock’s eyes rake over the setup, and John wishes for all the world he could hear Sherlock’s deductions in real-time. “No, thank you, my companion and I have come prepared.”

“I’ll just take your coats, then. As a reminder, while we don’t forbid the use of electronic devices here at Splay, we do prohibit photography or recording of any kind. If you’re suspected of violating this policy, your phone will be confiscated by our security services until the sensitive materials have been deleted. This policy was detailed in the contract you signed upon check-in. Any questions?”

“No, it was quite clear, thank you.” Sherlock hands over his coat and gestures to John to do the same.

“Excellent. I’ll escort you to your assigned table for the evening. Guests are allowed to mingle at-will, but private rooms are by reservation only. If you and your companion would like to request a room, please just flag me down and I’ll be happy to assist.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, before we head in, I will remind you that we have a mandatory leash law in enforcement. Have you brought one for your Sub, or would you like one to be provided?”

John bristles at the insinuation, but then reminds himself to _calm down._ This was all just play-acting; a chance for curious outsiders to dabble in a rather clumsy mimicry of what the _actual_ lifestyle was all about. It wasn’t up to him to be the PR police here.

“I’ve brought my own, thank you.” Sherlock produces the long strip of leather and with an infuriating level of casualness reaches up and hooks the metal clip around the loop of John’s collar with a satisfying _click._ Something about it sends an unsolicited shiver up John’s spine as he imagines what it would be like to put a leash on Sherlock. To have him crawling at the end of it, submissive and sedate beneath the distracting facade of all that raw muscle and sheer _brilliance--_

Christ. _Keep it together, Watson._ This was a goddamn case, not a kinky fact-finding expedition.

With a satisfied nod, Grace turns and leads them through the door at the far end of the room and down a dimly-lit staircase. John can hear the steady thrum of the bass echoing off the walls, and he casts a quick glance at Sherlock; he suddenly feels a bit nervous, for no reason at all. Sherlock’s eyes remain fixed resolutely straight ahead.

They emerge onto a scene that for all intents and purposes seems to have been transported from another dimension entirely, as if all of John’s most latent fantasies had sprung suddenly, disconcertingly to life.

The room itself appears to be a repurposed vault from centuries past, with low stone archways framing a labyrinth of adjoining rooms. The only light is provided by candelabras affixed to the walls and the occasional antique crystal chandelier hanging from the buttressed ceiling-- but instead of burning candles, they’ve been outfitted with flameless bulbs in a deep crimson hue, casting the whole scene in a sensual red light. 

Gathered in clusters below are the patrons, outfitted in clothing that varies from mildly risque to borderline obscene; from his vantage point at the base of the stairs, John sees no fewer than four leather corsets, a dazzling array of masks and harnesses, and even a riding crop resting haphazardly across the lap of a young man lounging casually at the bar. The clientele are clearly here for a good time; while there’s plenty of people simply chatting and enjoying their beverages, John also spots several couples (and one threesome) in the throes of rather enthusiastic make-out sessions. As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he can spot more patrons in the darkened corner booths, moving in ways that leave little to the imagination.

And there were Subs _crawling._ Most of them weren’t-- there were plenty standing or walking beside their Doms, or kneeling patiently at their feet. But there are a few _crawling_ in that way that Sherlock does so _beautifully,_ and for a moment John’s throat feels rather tight and dry, and it’s nothing to do with the leather collar he’s sporting. Sherlock crawling used to make John feel a bit uncomfortable, but the more they played with it, the more he’s finding he _enjoys_ it nearly as much as Sherlock does, and is forced to admit that recently there have been a more than a few occasions in which he’s enjoyed a shameful wank to the idea of himself forcing to Sherlock crawl in very public places: through Trafalgar square, the halls of Buckingham Palace… the offices at the Yard.

He’d never _actually_ do that, of course; they kept their power exchanges strictly confidential within the walls of 221B. But surely a little fantasising never hurt anyone…

Yet here, right before his very eyes, is displayed a scenario in which that very fantasy could be brought to life in non-judgemental company. He finds the prospect endlessly arousing.

“Right this way.” Grace’s voice shakes him from his reverie, and Sherlock steps determinedly in front of him to lead John on the leash towards a cozy booth tucked discreetly against an artfully-crumbling stone column. Sherlock eases himself onto the emerald velvet seat with an infuriating air of casual self-assuredness before snapping at John and pointing to his feet. John casts his gaze downwards and sees that there’s a plush, gold-fringed pillow positioned there. 

For him to kneel on. Right. _Head in the game, Watson._

He lowers himself dutifully to his knees and assumes the position he makes Sherlock take when they're doing this: Head up, back straight, hands folded in his lap. He looks up at Sherlock’s face, subconsciously seeking some form of approval despite himself.

Sherlock locks eyes with him. “Good.” He gives John’s hair a light ruffle, then turns his attention back to Grace. John can feel himself bristle a bit; he feels rather patronized in this position, and he finds he doesn’t much enjoy the sensation. 

“Can I fetch you anything from the bar, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock gives her his most charming smile. “I think John and I will just take a moment to get our bearings.”

“Of course, sir. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask a member of our staff. Enjoy your evening.” And with a curt nod, she disappears into the crowd.

For an indeterminate length of time, they just sit. John can see Sherlock casting his eyes over the crowd, undoubtedly performing a million deductions per minute, but to the casual observer he looks rather _predatory,_ as if selecting an appetizer for the evening. The thought makes John shiver.

He tries to focus himself, but he’s discovered that he’s really very little use in situations like this. While Sherlock can zero in on the Work entirely, John has a tendency to find himself being relentlessly sidetracked by red herrings; during undercover jobs like this, he’s used to proudly announcing to Sherlock that he’d identified a cocaine dealer from the dusting of powder on his shirt sleeve only to have Sherlock roll his eyes and announce that man was a _baker,_ and that the real dealer was the frumpy woman in the paisley dress who’d slipped out the back 30 seconds ago, if John would be so kind as to _get with the program and help Sherlock chase her down._

So he allows himself to just sit, and look, and… watch. He’s doing his best to not be titillated by the sordid scenarios playing out in every nook and cranny of the vault, but honestly… how could he _not_ look? So many beautiful women (and men, he supposes), all smiling and touching and _moving_ in a way that makes his denims feel rather constricting.

“Holy shit-- Sherlock? Is that you?”

John’s ripped from his thoughts by the voice of a man standing directly in front of them, beaming down at Sherlock like he’s his long-lost best friend. The man is _incredibly_ conventionally attractive, that much is obvious to John; he’s in his mid-thirties, with olive skin, wild dark hair, and such piercing green eyes that John can make out their colour even in the dark of the club. He’s holding a thin leather leash, at the opposite end of which is a stunningly pretty girl in a matching collar and tight black dress. The man has an accent-- barely detectable, but there. Spanish?

Sherlock looks up at the man, his face a blank mask. John tries to read his expression, but utterly fails; does he actually _know_ this man? He doesn’t look familiar to John-- it certainly hadn’t really occurred to him that they might be recognized here in any meaningful way.

Sherlock opens his mouth cautiously. “Do I know you?”

“I’m so sorry--Javier, Javier Cortes.” He extends his hand amicably, his smile unwavering. “We met once, a long time ago-- must be over a decade by now. We spent a very nice evening together.” 

_Javier Cortes_ … Suddenly, the realisation hits John like a tonne of bricks: Javier Cortes was one of the _owners_ of Splay. How was it possible that Sherlock _knew_ him but hadn’t shown any recognition of the name when Greg had sent the records over? None of it made sense.

Sherlock licks his lips and takes a diplomatic pause. “My apologies, but I don’t recall--”

“May I be indelicate?” Javier asks with the quirk of a brow. He doesn’t wait for a response. “We fucked.” He smiles in a way that _may_ have been friendly, but to John looks rather _smug._

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I can say with a rather high degree of certainty that we did no such thing.”

Javier laughs. “Well, if you want to get into semantics, _we_ didn’t fuck. You watched me get fucked and got off on it. The actual fucking was between me and your partner, euh, what was his name? Vincent?”

_“Victor?”_ The name is out of John’s mouth before he can stop himself, and Javier gives him a startled look, as though shocked that he should be participating in the conversation at all.

But John pays that no mind. He’s too busy grappling with the sudden rather _mortifying_ realisation that Javier is probably telling the truth.

John knows for a fact that Sherlock’s relationship with Victor was complicated, and that their sex life had been even more so. Sherlock had told John about the ways Victor had maneuvered outside of Mycroft’s jurisdiction over Sherlock’s activities by almost exclusively involving third parties in their sex life, allowing Sherlock to play the role of voyeur while Victor himself engaged in the actual sex. The arrangement had always struck John as rather pervy and taboo… yet somehow also more than a little hot.

And here was one of their conquests, in the flesh. John’s position on the floor feels suddenly much more humiliating.

Javier, on the other hand, looks delighted. “Yes, _Victor,_ that was it! Are you two still together?”

John initially thinks that’s rather an odd question to ask someone who has an entirely _different_ man currently settled at his feet at the end of a leash, but then quickly realises that within the polyamorous community, that would hardly be a fact worth consideration.

Sherlock’s expression has changed entirely. His face is now open, relaxed, and he’s gazing at Javier with a winning smile; it’s obvious that he’s realised this past conquest and the co-owner of the club are one in the same, and this personal connection may be _just_ the leg up they needed. The game, it would seem, was very much on. 

“Sadly, no, he went off and married himself a politician.”

Javier laughs amicably. “Ah, well, there’s no account for taste.”

“Listen…” Sherlock leans back and drapes his arm invitingly over the back of the booth. “Would you and your companion care to join us? John and I were just saying that things were a bit _dull_ in here. Catching up with an old friend might be just what we need to spice the evening up.”

Javier raises his eyebrows playfully. “Of course. This _is_ my establishment, after all, I’d hate to think any of my patrons found it _dull.”_

Sherlock’s jaw drops in a rather impressive impression of abject mortification. “Oh my _God,_ you _own_ this place? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude--” John has to give it to him, his acting is _impeccable._ His cheeks flush and he looks _adorably_ flustered as he cards his fingers through his hair self-consciously. Christ, he’s good-looking when he’s flirting.

Javier throws his head back and laughs. “No offense taken. Your first mistake, I think, is that you are missing a drink.” He snaps his fingers, and an effortlessly gorgeous waitress materializes apparently out of thin air. “Katrina? A bottle of scotch for the table, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Cortes.” She disappears into the crowd as Javier settles into the booth next to Sherlock. The pretty redhead at the end of his leash folds gracefully into a kneel on the pillow beside John’s, and gives him a coy smile from beneath lowered lashes, as though the two of them had a naughty secret to share. John finds he rather resents it.

“So… when did you open this place?” Sherlock has turned all of his attention to Javier and has dialed up the fliration to 11, much to John’s chagrin. He’s squared his shoulders and tucked one leg onto the booth, leaving no room for interpretation as to where his concentration is directed.

Javier seems to glow under his gaze. “My partner and I started it about six years back--”

“And were you always in the hospitality business?” Sherlock is feigning fascination rather convincingly, and John bristles as Javier lets his arm drape over the back of the booth, turning the conversation instantly more intimate.

“No, my partner talked me into it, actually-- he owns another spot in Chelsea, but that’s more a cocktail bar than a club.”

“And with slightly less salacious underpinnings, I presume, though I’d like to imagine a BDSM-themed cocktail lounge would have quite the impact on the scene…”

Javier laughs, a rather obnoxious sound, if John thinks about it. He hazards a glance at the girl kneeling next to him, who gives him another smile and a coy wink. He licks his lips and smiles back. Two could play at this game.

“No, that one’s just a standard bar. This place, though-- it was all Charlie’s idea. I thought he was crazy at first-- after all, there’s no shortage of underground establishments here in the city, it seemed to me the market was saturated enough as-is. But Charlie insisted that what the scene needed was something that _wasn’t_ underground, something that… how did he put it, _toed the edge_ of being almost _mainstream.”_

Sherlock nods approvingly. “I have to admit, this place has certainly got a... unique flavour.”

Just then the waitress returns with a bottle of _very_ expensive scotch, which she places on the table with a flourish, along with two glasses. Javier thanks her and pours the drinks, and he and Sherlock toast. John wonders if it’s standard protocol to just pretend the Subs on the floor are invisible, or if this is something specific to Javier. It’s irritating him to no end; where the hell did this guy get off, not even bothering to offer to let them join in the drink?

“So.” Javier gazes into Sherlock’s eyes as though he’s the most fascinating thing in the room (which he undoubtedly _is,_ John knows, but sod this arsehole for noticing). “Are you and your friend here new on the scene? I feel like I’d’ve noticed if we’d seen you around.”

Sherlock laughs and sips his drink. “I’m honestly incredibly flattered that you even remember me. That night with Victor feels like a lifetime ago.”

Javier smiles appraisingly. “In my defense, you started popping up in the papers not that long afterwards, and you’ve got an awfully unusual name. Not to mention that night was… memorable for me. Let’s just say I mentally revisited it often.”

Sherlock blushes and rubs the back of his neck in a calculated display of modesty. “I enjoyed it as well.” He bats his eyelashes demurely.

“Ah, don’t blow smoke up my arse, you don’t remember the details.” Javier gives Sherlock’s arm a playful swat. John bites the inside of his cheek. “I could tell I wasn’t the first man the two of you brought home. Just glad to have been a part of it.”

Sherlock gives a modest shrug. “Victor and I had our share of fun, I suppose.”

“...and now?”

“John and I get by alright.” He grins down at John, who attempts to smile back but he’s fairly certain Sherlock can tell that above the smile, he’s glaring daggers at him.

“Have you two been here before? Hard to believe we haven’t crossed paths.”

“No, we don’t go out that often. But when we do, it’s usually at Myriad or Waistcoat.”

Javier’s eyebrows shoot up, and John can feel his own face lapse into a scowl; Myriad and Waistcoat were _considerably_ more hardcore BDSM venues; essentially private, members-only sex clubs catering to exhibitionists. 

Across from John, the girl shifts and eyes him more pointedly, clearly intrigued. John permits himself a moment of distraction to actually _look_ at her. She’s extremely pretty, young and fair-faced, with delicate features and deep brown eyes that, now that he’s actually _looking,_ sparkle with just a hint of mischief. Her long auburn hair falls in manicured waves past her shoulders, and her skin-tight black dress is doing all sorts of favours for her cleavage which John is _trying_ not to stare at but it’s _right there--_

She catches him looking and grins impishly, straightening her back ever so slightly as if to put it on display. She cocks her head ever so slightly. _Like what you see?_

John bites his lip and looks again, then rakes his eyes back up her body to meet her gaze. _Yes. Yes, I do._

Javier and Sherlock are still chatting away, but John permits himself to tune it out a bit. Normally he wouldn’t be _nearly_ so cavalier about checking out a woman in front of Sherlock, but tonight, in this situation, all bets were off-- and it _was_ for a case, after all.

The girl is _looking_ at him, too, making a rather obvious show of checking him out, and John finds himself secretly delighting a bit in her attention. Her eyes roam their way across his broad shoulders, his muscular chest (he’s suddenly glad Sherlock had insisted on him wearing his tightest black shirt), then down further, to where his thighs frame the V of his form-fitting trousers. She licks her own lips. They’re pillowy and petal pink and John finds himself suddenly wondering what they would feel like against his own.

“I think they’ve taken a liking to each other.”

The moment is broken by Javier’s interjection, and John and the girl both glance up at the two Doms seated above them, eyeing them appraisingly.

Sherlock sighs. “That’s John for you. He was quite the cad before he and I got involved; even now, I’ve got to keep him on a short leash or else I’m afraid he’s apt to _misbehave.”_ The way he emphasises that final word sends a flare of heat across John’s cheeks-- and to his groin, if he’s being honest.

“Mmm.” Javier tips his head slightly, assessing. “Do you let him play?”

“Occasionally, if he’s been good.”

“Ines here always has an eye out for what she likes, and what can I say-- I have a hard time denying her. The things we do for the ones we love,” he concludes with an apologetic shrug, and Sherlock chuckles conspiratorially.

“I wish I could be so generous with John, but I’m a jealous man at heart. That said, I can’t deny him the occasional indulgence.”

Javier locks eyes with Sherlock. “And… are you feeling _indulgent_ tonight?”

There’s a pregnant pause between the four of them, and John finds that jarringly, he has _no idea_ how he wants Sherlock to answer. Normally if you’d asked him if, objectively, he’d consent to Sherlock whoring him out as bait for a case, he’d have had a few choice expletives to share on the matter. But looking at Ines it suddenly doesn’t seem like _such_ a hardship. After all, sacrifices must be made in the name of the Work. And something about this _place_ \-- the music, the lights, the _people--_ the idea feels somehow normal. Acceptable. A necessary sacrifice.

Sherlock’s eyes roam John’s face and take in his body language, and in that moment, he has his answer.

“Yes. Yes, I think I am.”

A devilish grin spreads across Javier’s face. “Excellent. Ines? Would you like to make our new guests feel welcome?”

A wicked look gleams in her eyes as she gives an enthusiastic nod.

“Good. Go ahead, then.”

Sherlock’s voice is suddenly low in John’s ear, but when he speaks, it’s loud enough for Javier to overhear. “Remember our rules. No coming unless I tell you to. Hands over the clothes until I say otherwise. You stop when I say. You step out of line, you don’t get your treat. Understood?”

The words feel rough in the desert of John’s throat. “Yes.”

“Alright, then.” Sherlock settles back in the booth, draping his own arm over Javier’s so that their forearms overlap, as if forming some sort of alliance. “Go ahead. Enjoy.”

John turns his head just in time to see Ines prowling towards him on her hands and knees, leash hanging loosely from around her neck. Her eyes are bright and playful, hips swaying seductively, her movements choreographed and deliberate. Without hesitation, she rises up on her knees and kisses John full on the lips.

And it’s… Christ, it’s _good._ There’s no hesitation to it, it’s all sheer, unrestrained confidence, a purposeful determination that erases any semblance of embarrassment or modesty John might have intended to maintain in normal circumstances. Ines moves with such casual _ease,_ slotting her lips against his over and over again as their breath intermingles, and John’s suddenly hit with a potent, heady surge of _lust_ at the wild freedom of this encounter in a place like this one.

“John, you can touch her.”

Sherlock’s voice over his shoulder ignites something previously dormant inside him, reminding his body to _move._ He raises his hands to rest them on Ines’ slim waist, then slowly allows them to trail up and down her sides, exploring her form, familiarizing himself with the lines of her body beneath the confines of her dress.

They’re both still kneeling, which he supposes _should_ be awkward, but the way she splays her hands across the expanse of his back to pull him closer to her before letting them wander further down, past his waistline, slowly, resolutely coming to rest on the swell of his buttocks. She hitches his pelvis towards hers, and John is suddenly so hard it _hurts._

“God, they look lovely together, don’t they?” Javier’s voice sounds far away, as if he’s speaking from underwater. John all but tunes it out.

“That they do. So goddamn lovely.” Sherlock’s baritone is gravelly and deep, imbibed with arousal. The sound of it makes John shiver.

John allows his hands to venture lower as well, filling his palms with the soft globes of her arse to pull her closer and grind against her. She gasps into his mouth and blinks back at him, eyes full of desire. _God, yes._

The next thing John knows, she’s put two hands on his chest and shoved him bodily backwards so that he tumbles rather ungracefully into a sitting position, back propped against the seat of the booth, arse on the frigid floor. Without missing a beat, she straddles him and lowers herself into his lap, then latches her lips to the left side of his neck.

John groans and lets his head fall back, welcoming her ministrations. She undulates against him and he has no doubt she can feel his hardness pressing up against her, but he doesn’t have enough modesty left to feel a single iota of shame about the situation. Wherever the hell this is going, he’s along for the ride-- so long as Sherlock’s on board.

He hazards a glance up at Sherlock, who’s staring down at him, pupils blown wide, lips parted, cheeks infused with an unmistakable sex flushed. Jesus, was it possible _he was getting turned on by this, too?_

“S-S-Sherlock…” At that moment Ines grinds down on him with renewed fervor, and he can feel his eyes roll back in his head. The next thing he knows, he can feel Sherlock’s fingers carding gently through his hair.

“That’s good, John, so good, you’re so good for me. Go on, touch her…”

He can’t help it. His hands gravitate towards her breasts and he cups them gently, thumbing at her hardened nipples through the thin layer of fabric. She gasps and then seems to double down on her efforts, trailing wet kisses and sharp nips down the other side of John’s neck and across his collarbone.

“Sherlock.” Javier’s voice is low and deep, and John opens his eyes just in time to see Javier wrap his hand gently around the back of Sherlock’s neck and lean in for a kiss of his own.

“Wait. Pause.” Sherlock’s tone is stern and crystal clear.

To their credit, Javier and Ines both respond immediately. Ines sits back on John’s thighs to remove the direct contact between their groins, her lips wet and swollen from her efforts. Javier pulls away as well, back to his own side of the booth.

Javier looks visibly apprehensive. “Everything alright?”

Sherlock shakes his head, cheeks flushing in apparent embarrassment. “I’m… I’m _so_ sorry, this is incredibly embarrassing, but… but I have to ask. What security company do you use for this venue?”

Javier’s lips curl up in apparent relief. “One of the most discreet in the business. Don’t worry, the tabloids won’t get wind of what the famous detective and his sidekick get up to in their spare time.” He winks. John resists the urge to protest the label of _sidekick._

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, no, it’s not about us, we don’t care about that. It’s… it’s my brother.”

Javier looks lost. “Your brother?”

“He occupies a minor position in the British government, but as a result, I have to be incredibly cautious so as not to bring _disgrace_ to the family name. Can’t have the public mixing up the two Holmes brothers and thinking he’s spending his time in _‘establishments of ill repute.’”_ He emphasises the sarcasm with some fairly uncharacteristic air quotes. “That’s why we don’t venture out much; Mike has a _very_ short list of vetted security firms, and he _insists_ I don’t do anything… _untoward_ in public venues that don’t employ them.”

Javier nods compassionately, a look of solemn concern on his face. “I understand. For the record, we use GreySphere--” Sherlock’s eyes light up instantly, and Javier’s expression goes from apprehensive to downright _delighted._ “Are they… approved?”

Sherlock licks his lips. “Hell yes.” And with that, he reaches forward, threads his fingers through Javier’s locks, and pulls him in for a searing kiss.

For a moment John just _watches, shock_ and _arousal_ intermingling with a potent hit of _jealousy_ as he watches them come together. Sherlock is still stroking John’s hair with the free hand not occupied with Javier’s, and there’s something about being so _close_ to Sherlock when he’s engaged like this, his lips moving in familiar patterns against those of another man, earnest and eager and commanding. Javier responds in kind, moaning into Sherlock’s mouth as he shifts closer to cup Sherlock’s face and hold it against his own. John can’t tell if he wants to punch him out cold or keep watching.

But just then, Ines leans forward once more to bring John’s lips against hers, and the next thing he knows they’re moving in tandem once more, grinding desperately against one another as above them, Sherlock and Javier’s breaths grow heavier and more desperate.

The sound of Sherlock’s voice breaks the spell once more. “Do… mmm, Christ, _Javier--_ do you think we could get a room?”

John pulls away from Ines to look up at him, noting the way Sherlock’s wild hair and spit-slick lips make him look wanton and desperate for it. 

Javier laughs. “I mean, I _do_ own the place.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I just mean… I’d like to take this further. If you and Ines are amenable.”

Javier glances down at Ines, still resolutely straddling John though she’s ceased the rhythmic oscillations of her hips for the time being. “Ines?”

Her eyes flick back to John’s, and she smiles. “Yes, please.” John smiles back, and gives a slight nod of consent.

“Excellent. Give me two minutes, I’ll be right back.” He stands and makes a valiant attempt at adjusting the front of his trousers to hide his current state before disappearing into the crowd.

The moment he’s out of sight, Sherlock whips his mobile out of his pocket and begins typing into it frantically. _Researching GreySphere._ Of course.

John kindly takes it upon himself to distract Ines in the meantime.

What feels like mere seconds later, Javier has returned, a winning grin on his face. He picks up the end of Ines’ leash with a flourish. “Right this way, everyone--”

But before he can finish, Sherlock is on his feet, hauling John up off his knees rather crudely; John wobbles a bit as he acclimates to standing again. “Javier, I am _so sorry,_ but we’ve just got a text from our contact at the Yard. They urgently require my presence for a case.”

Javier’s disappointment is palpable. “Now? It’s nearly midnight.”

Sherlock looks completely unflustered. If John hadn’t seen Javier’s tongue down his throat mere minutes ago, he’d have assumed Sherlock had been laser-focused on the case this entire time. “Apologies, but a full 65% of homicides occur between midnight and 4AM. This is sort of our rush hour, to be honest.” 

Javier glowers. “And it can’t wait?”

Sherlock’s gaze locks with Javier’s once more, and his face transforms back into that predatory, sex-starved look John knows so well. “For what I want to do with you? We’ll need more time than I’ve got right now.”

Javier blushes and swallows. “Ah, well, then. Who am I to argue? But… I hope this is not the last we’ll be seeing of you?”

Sherlock reaches into his pocket and produces a business card, which he hands to Javier with a very _pointed_ look. “Call us. We’ll be around, yeah? Let’s set up something more... _private.”_

Javier licks his lips and gives Ines a pleased wink. “Oh, by all means, _let’s.”_

And then Sherlock’s hand closes around John’s bicep in an iron grip, and the fantasy is broken. “Come along, John. Duty calls.”

The brisk night air hits him like a slap in the face as they step out of the club. Sherlock’s hand is already in the air, summoning a taxi that they clamber into with their standard haste as Sherlock rattles off a familiar address.

John clears his throat. He feels like his brain has whiplash; minutes ago he’d been in the thralls of one of the most erotic encounters they’ve had in recent memory, and now they’re in full-on Case Mode. His brain (and his cock) are having trouble keeping up. “So. I assume this has to do with GreySphere.”

Sherlock passes over his mobile with the page pulled up. “It’s a private security company founded here in London. It’s owned by one _Natasha Belmont.”_

“Am… Am I supposed to know who that is?” John squints down at the page to see a professional headshot of an unfamiliar woman smiling up at him.

“No, but I do.” Sherlock pockets his phone with a flourish. “She went to Cambridge, majoring in International Studies and Slavic languages, and then went to work for the government straight out of school. Within five years, she was working the Russia desk at MI6.”

John blinks at Sherlock, baffled. “And you know all of this, how?”

Sherlock shakes his head with a smirk. “Because she was mates with my bloody _brother.”_

John’s mouth falls open. “So… where are we going now?”

“We’re going to pay that meddlesome prat a long-overdue visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need. Comments. To. Thrive.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. HERE WE GO. BACK IN THE SADDLE. LET'S DO THIS.

The taxi pulls up in front of the familiar classic cream facade and has barely had time to decelerate before Sherlock is tumbling out the door in a flourish of harried self-importance. John resigns himself to a rather undignified quest to access his wallet in the back pocket of his altogether too-tight trousers, throws some bills at the cabbie, and plods after him.

To his surprise, their arrival at the Diogenes seems _anticipated,_ if not necessarily _welcomed._ A stout man with the trademark look of polite indifference apparently required by all Diogenes porters is waiting for them in the lobby, wordlessly ushering them towards the now-familiar sanctuary of the library cloistered within. The porter holds up his finger-- _It will just be a moment--_ before pulling the heavy oak-panelled doors shut behind them. 

Over the years, if there was one distinctive trait John Watson could attribute to Mycroft Holmes, it was that he _very_ much enjoyed to keep his guests waiting. Sherlock had once astutely observed that it was because he so loved making his signature swanning entrance, though John suspects it’s actually more to do with reminding his guests precisely _who_ would be setting the boundaries of the interaction. Regardless of the reason, John amiably settles into one of the plush leather chairs, anticipating a fair bit of downtime before Mycroft deigned to grace them with his presence.

Sherlock, however, continues to pace, a look of grim determination on his face as his brain shifts into overdrive.

“So what are you thinking?” John props his feet up casually on the undoubtedly uproariously expensive coffee table in front of him, secretly delighting in its desecration by his well-worn combat boots.

Sherlock purses his lips. “Eight theories so far. Three good ones.”

“Care to elaborate?”

For once, Sherlock doesn’t shut him down. “My brother’s obviously been in the inner circle on the Craneworthy matter since the beginning, which is how I came to suspect that there was more to it than a simple case of corruption. Mycroft telling me to steer clear of a topic is unusual for him; he knows nothing goads me like a good old-fashioned referendum, so for him to intervene, it must be truly important. Or as it turns out, truly _personal.”_

John raises his eyebrows.

“Natasha was one of Mycroft’s closest friends when he was at University. Well, I suppose they’d best be referred to as _allies_ rather than _friends,_ seeing as Mycroft’s never had a friend in his life, but he has always had a penchant for identifying future authority figures and making himself absolutely _indispensable_ to them early on. It’s one of his most infuriating talents.” John gives a knowing nod.

“He actually brought Natasha home with him to our country estate several times over the course of his studies at Cambridge. I believe he’d hoped our parents would assume them to be an _item,_ which perhaps they did, but it was always glaringly obvious to me that it was simply a cover for their rather less _orthodox_ proclivities.”

For a split second John considers asking Sherlock to elaborate before abruptly realising that there’s nothing he wants to know about _less_ than Mycroft’s _unorthodox proclivities,_ so he quickly reframes his question.

“What does that mean, in Natasha’s case?”

“I can say with near-certainty that she’s a lesbian-- or at least queer. Which, until 1991, was an automatic disqualifier for working in British Intelligence. Hence my hypothesis that she and my brother had a little _arrangement,_ back in the day.”

John takes a moment to mull this over. “Seems reasonable enough. But what does any of that have to do with Craneworthy?”

Sherlock rumples his hair in obvious frustration. “That’s the connection we’re looking for. The Craneworthy case has always held my interest because it was so _obvious_ that something was missing: A Yard official caught embezzling from a fund for police widows, insists he was acting alone, goes to prison, yet people involved on the periphery of the case keep dying over the course of many years. _Why?_ If it _were_ a frame-up, it was executed perfectly… why keep tying up perceived loose ends, if for all intents and purposes the actual culprit had gotten away with it? If anything, each murder simply _increases_ the chances of drawing attention back to the case.”

John licks his thumb and leans forward to remove a smudge of dirt from the toe of his boot. “Craneworthy’s wife. You said she was an MP?”

“Still is. She was cleared of all wrongdoing in her husband’s involvement with the initial embezzlement scandal. She’s been a darling of the party for a long time.”

John raises his eyebrows. “So… surely she has something at stake, here?”

“Yes, but _what?_ The initial incident occurred fifteen years ago! Ancient history, in political terms. And why the hell would the _Russians_ be involved?”

“Perhaps the better question is, why the hell would _you_ be involved, brother mine?”

Despite himself, John jerks upright, yanking his boots off the table. Something about Mycroft’s presence always made him feel infuriatingly delinquent.

Mycroft strides into the room with his typical aura of disengaged nonchalance. He’s carrying a snifter of brandy, though it looks untouched. He rakes his gaze over Sherlock and John in turn, then pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a wholly theatrical swig of his drink.

Sherlock was already agitated, and John can tell Mycroft’s demeanor is pushing him perilously close to the edge of a rather unproductive explosion. He decides to be proactive and interject before Sherlock has a chance to rile things up.

“We’re involved because _Lestrade_ brought us in on a case. Homicide. Arthur Bainbridge. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? No? That’s odd, because currently the prime suspect is one _Irene Adler,_ and last I heard, you’ve remained rather _personally_ invested in her whereabouts.”

Mycroft narrows his gaze. “What on earth are you wearing?”

John shrugs, grateful he’d had the presence of mind to at least remove his collar and pocket it in the cab ride over. “New stylist. I think this look is working for me, don’t you?”

“It’s very difficult to take you seriously when you’re wearing eyeliner.” His lips twist into something of a sneer, and John feels himself bristle with indignation. For the most part Mycroft kept his knowledge of their sex life out of polite conversation, but there were moments when he’d make a passing remark, innocuous on the surface, but John would know deep down it was a threat. _I know the things you do with my brother. Tread lightly here, Doctor._

“Natasha Belmont,” Sherlock interjects vehemently from his position by the fireplace, clearly hoping to incite something of a rise.

Mycroft remains unmoved. “Are we playing a game in which we simply name women we know? Jolly fun. I’ll go next: Margaret Thatcher. Your turn, Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock is having none of it. _“Don’t_ play stupid with me, Mycroft. Natasha’s company runs security for a club where Irene was paid to act as a honeypot for multiple individuals connected to Craneworthy that later turned up dead. From a _Russian nerve agent._ Natasha worked the Russia desk at MI-6. Do you detect a pattern emerging here, _brother mine?_ Because at long last, I have. _This_ is the thread that ties the whole Craneworthy affair together.”

Mycroft folds himself gracefully into one of the plush leather armchairs, looking as unaffected as ever. “And what, pray tell, _is_ the Craneworthy affair, in your opinion?”

Sherlock pauses.

Mycroft smiles. “Ah, and there’s the catch, isn’t it? You’re like a hound who’s spent a lifetime chasing foxes, and now that you’ve got one trapped in your jowls, you’ve no idea what to do with it. You’ve successfully linked a privately-owned security company to a disgraced dominatrix who exchanges her services for clout. You suspect this security company _poisoned_ some of her illustrious clients, but you haven’t a single shred of proof, let alone a motive. You must admit, Sherlock, that even for an _amateur_ detective, your case seems a bit… _weak.”_

Sherlock’s nostrils are flaring, his cheeks flushed with an undeniable surge of rage. “But I am _close._ I’ve found the thread. Now I just need to follow it to its natural end.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you _here?”_

Sherlock shrugs. “Chalk it up to fair play. You’ve been pushing me away from Craneworthy for years, Mycroft, and I’m here to tell you _it won’t work this time._ It’s in your best interest to simply divulge what you know and hurry this along to its inevitable conclusion.”

“And how do you know what is _in my best interest?_ Has it not occurred to you that you haven’t the _faintest_ idea what you’ve stumbled upon?”

“I didn’t _stumble_ upon it, I’ve been chasing this for _years,_ and you--”

“Have told you to leave it. Full stop. You want to solve the Bainbridge case for your handlers at the Yard, resurrect a woman from the dead, dazzle them with your intellect for a swift pat on the head and a biscuit? You know damn well where Irene Adler is. Turn her in. Take your prize. Get your revenge for that rather _embarrassing_ incident a few years ago. I guarantee you none of _my_ colleagues have forgotten about the time you got _seduced_ by a _professional sex worker_ and blew an entire covert operation just to show off for her. Oh, and judging by the look on Dr. Watson’s face, he seems to have not forgotten it, either.”

“Careful, Mycroft.” John can feel an indignant heat prickling at the base of his neck.

“Or _what,_ Dr. Watson? The two of you storm in here at all hours of the evening, accuse a dear acquaintance of mine of murdering over a dozen people-- with a _Novichok agent, no less--_ and expect me to what, break down blubbering and confess that a mass government conspiracy against a singular measly law enforcement officer a decade and a half ago goes _all the way to the top?_ Shall I get the Prime Minister on the phone?”

“Sod this. Come on, John, we’re leaving.”

“My, he does keep you on a short leash, doesn’t he?”

John is stricken by the sudden, mortifying sensation that Mycroft can somehow _sense_ the leather collar concealed in his pocket. He shakes off the thought-- it’s absurd. He resolutely rises to his feet and follows Sherlock out the door, not bothering to spare a glance behind him.

********************

Sherlock doesn’t eat or sleep for three days. He paces. He smokes. He stares at the wall where he’s pinned up all the case evidence, a dense tapestry traversing fifteen years and sixteen crimes. He hacks away at his violin until just before dawn, only to withdraw into stony silence and sit, fingers steepled, in his chair by the fireplace as the first rays of morning sunlight filter in through the dusty curtains. He doesn’t speak. The circles under his eyes grow coal-dark and his gaze is distant and hollow.

John is a helpless planet trapped in orbit around an imploding star. He brings Sherlock tea and watches it grow cold. He reviews the case files and throws endless theories out into the echoing silence of the sitting room, only to be left unacknowledged and bereft. He cooks food that goes uneaten, and sleeps in a bed that feels cold and lonely.

He wanks off to fantasies of Javier and Ines. Twice.

It’s on the morning of the fourth day that he picks up the newspaper, settles into his chair, takes a sip of tea, and then promptly spits it out all over the front page.

Sherlock glares at him from where he’s perched on the armchair of the sofa, staring at the evidence wall. John’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s looked at him in 72 hours.

“Margery Whycombe.”

“Craneworthy’s ex-wife. What about her?” Sherlock sounds endlessly irritated.

John holds up the front page of the newspaper. “Rumours are swirling that she’s positioned to become leader of the party. Which means--”

“In contention for Prime Minister. _Interesting._ ” Sherlock is up off the sofa and crowding into John’s personal space in record time, peering eagerly over his shoulder.

“Apparently there’s been quite the shakeup within the party, and she’s now the newly-emerged frontrunner.”

“Interesting, interesting…” Sherlock reeks of nicotine and stale coffee, but something about his damn _scen_ t still sends prickles down John’s spine when he leans over him like this. Christ, even after all these years…

“Hold up. Here.” John points to a sentence in the second to last paragraph of the article. “She received her undergraduate degree in 1988 from Cambridge. That’d overlap with Mycroft’s attendance, right?”

Sherlock furrows his brow. “Yes, technically, though he never mentioned her; I’d’ve remembered that. But perhaps…”

In an instant, Sherlock is seated at the desk, flicking open John’s laptop and typing furiously.

It’s both mere moments and an eternity before Sherlock sits back, eyes blown wide, and turns to meet John’s eyes. John knows before Sherlock even speaks: he’s cracked it.

“So?” He gives Sherlock a grin.

Sherlock turns to reveal his laptop screen. “Student accommodation records from Christ’s College circa the mid-eighties. Margery Whycombe moved off-site to a flatshare in her fourth year.”

John raises his eyebrows.

“She moved into the same address as one Natasha Belmont.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've purged my latest bout of Pandemic-induced ennui and am ready to soldier on with this case fic! But honest to God, next time I start blathering on about wanting to write a case fic, someone virtually slap me and tell me to stick to the smut.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And welcome back to our regularly-scheduled programming! Please note, Chapter 7 has been edited and updated to include plot content, so if you haven't read that chapter yet, take a click back and do so.

“We need to call Greg.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. It goes against every well-honed instinct in his detective’s toolkit to involve _the authorities_ in such a delicate matter.

And true, it would probably be helpful to have a proper _warrant,_ to be able to search GreySphere’s records for confirmation of correspondence between Natasha and the MP, of course, of _course,_ but that would take precious _time,_ and could anyone at the Yard truly be trusted with such sensitive intel? Lestrade was one thing, but he was surrounded by helpless, blundering buffoons, none of whom possessed the finesse or precision for so sensitive an operation, especially if Natasha Belmont proved to be half as dangerous as the trail of bodies in her wake seemed to suggest she was.

He runs his fingers through his (unacceptably greasy) hair and heaves an exasperated sigh. Surely it’s nearly time for another cigarette.

“We don’t know that we can trust the Yard with this, John. Whatever’s happening here, it’s well above their pay grade. We can’t count on them not to bungle it.”

“Sherlock, they could get us a warrant. Whycombe’s connection to Natasha and GreySphere must be documented somewhere-- we need that proof.”

Sherlock laughs, entirely without mirth, and shoots John a withering glance. “So you think GreySphere, a private security company run by a former MI6 agent, what, keeps hard copies of their contracts with government authorities in a quaint little lockbox stored in a desk drawer? Or perhaps in a big, impressive bank vault that the Yarders will open with a dazzling display of prowess and TNT? _Please.”_

John glowers back at him, clearly unamused. “Fine. So what’s your solution? And please don’t let it include eye makeup this time, I don’t think my ego can withstand it.”

“It’s hardly my fault if your masculinity is so fragile it can be fractured by the mere application of eyeliner. That said, I think it’s time to call in a favour.”

John raises an eyebrow. “With whom?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I have a source.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighs and rubs his eyes. He _really_ doesn’t want to get into this right now. “With Aaron, alright? He works for MI5, he’s a cryptographer and part-time hacker--”

“Excuse me, _what?_ He’s a _hacker?”_

Well, shit. Seems he’d forgotten to divulge this tiny detail to John previously. “It’s a _hobby,_ John, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Point is, he’ll understand the pressure points of GreySphere’s system enough to get us access. And he has the connections to make the investigation legitimate, should we be discovered.”

“And you think he’ll be willing to stick his neck out for you?”

Sherlock gives John a pointed look. “Why, yes, John, I’m quite certain that Aaron is _rather_ willing to stick his neck out for me. Among other things, if you must know.” It’s a low blow and he knows it, but now is _not_ the time to be dealing with John’s moral hangups about the slightly unorthodox nature of Sherlock and Aaron’s friendship.

John rises abruptly to his feet, nearly knocking his mug off the end table in the process. “Fine. We’ll go see Aaron.” He pivots on his heel and stalks off towards the kitchen, followed by the sound of running water and the clattering of dishes. “Just give me a minute to get changed.”

Sherlock clears his throat. Christ, did John have to be _so_ intentionally obtuse? “...I think it’s best if I go alone.”

There’s a resounding silence from the kitchen, the water having abruptly shut off midway through Sherlock’s sentence. Sherlock listens intently to his own heartbeat thrumming in his eardrums and prepares to stand his ground.

John emerges from the kitchen looking nothing short of furious. “And why’s that, exactly? Going to trade some _goods_ for the services, as it were?”

It’s a nasty thing to say and Sherlock’s pointedly aware of it, but he’s in full-blown Case Mode and can’t bring himself to muster up much more than a vague sense of indignation. “This is big, John. If we find the proof I’m certain is there, Whycombe’s association with GreySphere will upend the current political status quo and reveal a decade and a half of domestic terrorist activity by a former government agent.”

“And my presence will… what, make that less sexy for you?”

“No, it’ll make it more _dangerous_ for everyone involved. Aaron knows me. He trusts me. He’ll take me at my word.”

“And me?”

“He…” Sherlock doesn’t quite have the words for how Aaron feels about John. They’d been at each others’ throats since the day they met, so he’s quite diplomatic in giving his friendship with Aaron wide berth from his relationship with John. John thinks Aaron is a cad and a rogue. Aaron thinks John is… untrustworthy.

And he’s not quite sure how to tell John that. That Aaron thinks John’s (mostly) closeted existence makes him some sort of existential threat to living ‘honestly’ and ‘openly.’ That John’s downplaying of his involvement with Sherlock makes him a traitor to some unspecified ‘team’ of which he and Sherlock are proud members. That John’s overt heterosexuality is simply a guise for internalised homophobia that he weilds like a shield disguised by hideous wool jumpers and ill-fitting coats. And though Sherlock has come a long way in convincing Aaron that John’s not all bad, that John’s made true inroads and progress and that he’s _out_ now, John still rubs Aaron the wrong way.

As it were.

So, yes. Wide breadth was important indeed.

And the fact that these trivialities were impacting a _case_ is so infuriating, he finds himself suddenly a bit stricken with simmering resentment.

“...He doesn’t like your style.”

John’s eyebrow arches incredulously. “My _style?_ Of what, exactly, detective work? Or is he on about my jumpers again?”

“Of existing. You bother him.”

“I _bother_ him?”

It’s rude and blunt and honestly, Sherlock doesn’t give a rat’s arse at this point; they can make amends when all this is over.

“Yes. You bother him. And if you keep interrogating me like this, I’m inclined to understand why.”

John’s lips have gone pale and white with rage, and Sherlock is well aware that John is about one failed ten-second countdown from turning this into a massive row.

But instead, he turns and walks out the door of the flat, slamming it behind him.

Well.

That was a bit Not Good. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Sherlock needs to get back to the Work as soon as possible.

He showers quickly and brushes his teeth (well aware that showing up on Aaron’s doorstep looking like he’d just crawled in off a bender would probably not highlight the gravitas of the situation), then dresses in his third-favourite suit and hails a cab for Vauxhall.

*****************

Sherlock is well aware of the fact that he has a tendency to lose track of time when he’s working on a case. That said, he rarely finds it much of a deterrent; it’s more a simple fact of life that only becomes relevant when it was an inconvenience, such as when a particular shop or office was closed, or when a source insisted upon doing something pointless like _eating_ or _sleeping_ instead of helping him pursue crucial information.

Or, in the case of this particular morning, when they had just been woken up.

“Sherlock?” Aaron was looking rather annoyingly _adorably_ disheveled, rubbing his eyes blearily, his hair sticking up in all directions.

“Hi. Sorry for popping in unannounced. It’s for a case. Do you have a moment?”

Aaron gives him an appraising Look. “You do realize it’s, like, barely after 8 on a _Sunday,_ right?”

Sherlock does his best to hide his irritation. “I wasn’t aware that _domestic terrorism_ took weekends off.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, his good nature getting the better of him, and opens the door fully to usher Sherlock inside with a defeated sigh. He’s wearing a _very_ short terrycloth dressing gown. Sherlock does _not_ look at his calves _or_ his thighs as he walks past.

“Just… give me a minute, yeah? Can you go put the kettle on? I need coffee.”

Needs must. Sherlock gives a brisk nod and Aaron plods off towards the bedroom, presumably to put on some trousers. Sherlock makes his way to the kitchen and busies himself filling the kettle and loading the French press; he’s spent enough time at Aaron’s place to know his way around. He fills the press and lets it steep, then pours two steaming mugs full.

Aaron re-emerges moments later, wearing sweatpants and a resentfully tight t-shirt and trailing an _incredibly_ gorgeous man in his wake. He’s tall and broad with dark skin, a chisled jawline, and a look of deep resentment on his face.

“Sherlock, this is… um…” Aaron flounders. Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“Derek,” the man helpfully supplies, his tone dripping with self-righteous indignation.

“Right, of course, _Derek._ Derek, this is Sherlock. Colleague from work.”

Derek’s gaze narrows. “Sure. Can at least get some coffee before I go?”

Sherlock’s patience is wearing thin, and he’s barely able to mask his exasperation. “Sorry, but no. Matter of national security. Time is of the essence. Goodbye.” He strides across the flat and throws open the front door, ushers Derek unceremonionsly through it, and closes it resolutely behind him with a satisfying _clack._

Aaron shuffles into the kitchen, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. “Christ, mate, you’re good at that. Can I have you on-call for those mornings when they just won’t _leave?”_

“Gladly. Always happy to use my egregious lack of manners for good; to think my mother said they’d be nothing but trouble.”

Aaron actually laughs at that, and Sherlock smiles back, and they share a beat of amicable camaraderie.

Aaron gestures towards a chair at the kitchen table, and pulls out one for himself. Sherlock sits, and takes a sip of coffee (God, Aaron always had good coffee at his place; he keeps meaning to ask John if they can invest in some better beans besides the overprocessed Waitrose drek John insists on buying, but he can never figure out how to bring it up without it being a _competition…)_. He collects his thoughts, and begins.

There’s no sugar-coating the ask, so he doesn’t bother; no sense in beating around the bush. “I need access to the files of a private security company in order to confirm a connection between a senior government official and a string of homicides.”

Aaron furrows his brow. “Someone in the government is killing people?”

“No, no, someone in the government is employing a security company to kill people. Sixteen to date, over the course of the last decade and a half.”

Aaron goes very, very still. His tone grows measured, almost detached. “And… what security company would that be?”

“GreySphere.”

_“Craneworthy.”_

Sherlock feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “You… you _know_ about the Craneworthy affair? About GreySphere’s involvement?”

Aaron leans back in his chair, knitting his fingers tightly around the circumference of his coffee mug before taking a steadying sip. He thinks for a moment before he replies. “You remember two years ago, when you came by the Yard so we could review the records of the hackers who cracked the embezzlement case back in ‘94?” Sherlock nods. “I noticed some… inconsistencies. I looked into it further, and discovered that several people on the periphories of that investigation had turned up dead. One thing they all had in common were ties to individuals who ended up leaving their government posts and taking on private work at GreySphere.”

Sherlock blinks hard, his heart in his throat.

“I brought it to my desk at MI5. I’ve been working the case for the past eighteen months. It’s not top priority by any stretch, but we’d made some headway.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Headway in terms of…”

Aaron presses his lips together, eyes locking with Sherlock’s, his face stern and serious. “We have a mole at GreySphere. Been there over six months now.”

“You don’t seem enthusiastic.”

“It’s been… slow going. Drawing solid connections between GreySphere and the victims has proven elusive, to say the least. Their systems are deeply encrypted, and the only thing we know for sure are the victims’ names, but GreySphere must have used aliases as they don’t show up anywhere in their records. We know that the victims were cased, probably blackmailed, but we haven’t found solid evidence of the common denominator between them and GreySphere.”

“But I have.” Sherlock’s heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“I have a source. She was contacted anonymously for reconnaissance missions, leading targets into a club whose security is run by GreySphere, presumably for the purpose of surveillance and blackmail. If your mole can prove that it was GreySphere who contacted her…”

“...Then perhaps we can source that request back to its origins.”

Sherlock nods solemnly. 

“I need a name.”

Sherlock hesitates. He can trust Aaron, he knows that, but this… this is dangerous.

“Can you guarantee her safety?”

Aaron places his mug on the table and rubs the back of his neck, tension evident in his jaw. “Depends on what intel her name dredges up. If it’s enough to help our mole find the relevant case files in GreySphere’s system, then yes.”

“And if not?”

Aaron sighs. “The Agency isn’t in the business of paying out for half-baked intel. Can she run on her own?”

“She has before. But they’re getting close to her on this. She’s scared.”

“Is she safe for now?”

“For now. I have her hidden in one of my boltholes. But she can’t stay there forever; she’s been framed for GreySphere’s latest homicide, and the Yard is on her tail.”

“Then the choice is yours. Give me her name; I’ll get it to my mole and see if that’s the Rosetta Stone that will lead us to the Craneworthy files. If it is, we’ll have the proof we need to pursue the case, and the Agency will take care of your witness.”

Sherlock’s brain is whirring in overdrive. It’s a calculated risk, to be certain, but he’s so close he can taste it. And to think, all this time Aaron had been pursuing symbiotic leads, coming at the very same case but from the opposite angle… it was as if they’d unknowingly engaged in coordinated maneuvers against shared prey, without exchanging a word. It’s irresistably exciting.

And yet…

“You trust your team?”

“With my life, every day. Why, you don’t?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I mean, they do _spy_ on people for a living.”

The joke doesn’t hit right-- he knows it the moment he says it. The stakes are too high in this moment for levity.

Aaron takes a long sip of coffee, then lowers his cup back to the table and spreads his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Well, those are my cards, and that’s my offer. It’s all on the table. Your call.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Her name is Irene Adler.”

“And do you by any chance have any idea what her email address or mobile number may have been circa… oh, say 2010?”

Sherlock grins. “As a matter of fact, I _do.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will eventually be more sex in this fic, I swear. 
> 
> LEAVE COMMENTS PLEASE!!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full speed ahead!

John’s mobile rings at a little after noon. He’s honestly shocked he had it on him when he’d stormed out of the flat that morning-- usually when he flew off the handle like that, he’d find himself several miles away from Baker Street without a coat, keys, wallet, or phone, shivering and disorientated and still seething with white-hot rage.

But fortunately, he’s pleased to find that today he’s somehow got both his mobile AND his wallet with him, the weather’s pleasant enough to make do without a jacket (verging on a little too warm for comfort at the pace he’s walking), and Mrs. H would be home all weekend if he needed someone to let him into the flat.

So.

All good things.

That said, when he looks down at his ringing mobile and sees Sherlock’s name on the caller ID, his first impulse is to toss it unceremoniously into the Thames. The water looks lovely today, slate grey-blue and calm, and the phone would undoubtedly make a satisfying _splish_ and send ripples clear across to Battersea. It’s tempting, to say the least.

But it _does_ occur to him that Sherlock was _calling._ Not texting flippant demands or cryptic updates, but honest-to-God _calling_ him, and he shoves his wounded ego aside just long enough to give himself a _glimpse_ of perspective.

“Yeah.”

“John? It’s me. Where are you?”

John glances around. It’s been awhile since he’s had a white-out, and it takes him a moment to figure out where exactly he’d stalked off to this time.

“Chelsea. Why?”

“I need your help.”

“Are you in Vauxhall?” John turns away from the river and towards the street, scanning for a cab.

“Yes, but that’s not where I need you. I need you to go keep guard over Irene.”

_“Irene?_ Finally on a first-name basis, are you?” He doesn’t _mean_ to be obstinate, honestly he doesn’t, but sometimes, _God…_  
“There’s a good chance Aaron and I have made a real breakthrough over here, but it came at the cost of her anonymity. If this works the way we’re hoping it will, MI5 will take over her protection as soon as the intel pays off. But until then, she’s on her own.”

“History suggests she’s just fine taking care of herself.”

There’s a beat. Then Sherlock’s voice again, lower, but faster, and tinged with the kind of desperation John’s only heard in it a few rare times before. “Please, John. I wasn’t wrong; what we’ve turned up is big. It’s dangerous. And if GreySphere catches wind of it, I’m worried they’ll somehow track her down. My boltholes are secure if no one is looking. But once they know what they’re searching for…”

This time, John doesn’t hesitate. “I understand.”

“...You should bring your gun.” There’s the sound of a voice in the background, then Sherlock’s muffled response as if he’s covered his phone; clearly Aaron was taking umbrage to having John on-site with an unlicensed firearm.

John doesn’t bother to wait for the conclusion of the dispute. “I’m on my way back to the flat to pick it up. Text me the address.”

And with that, he pockets his phone, and hails a cab for Baker Street.

****************

Despite the fact that John is well aware that Sherlock had a fully-operational system of boltholes and street-level spies under his jurisdiction well before the two of them crossed paths, it never ceases to catch him off guard just how _much_ of Sherlock’s nascent detective work remains a mystery to him. Just when he thinks he knows everything there is to know about the man who sleeps beside him every night, all it takes is a texted address to an unremarkable street in Brixton to remind him that Sherlock still contains volumes of unmined multitudes.

Maybe it should unsettle him. Somehow, it doesn’t-- perhaps it just compounds Sherlock’s endless mystique, even after all these years; the thought makes him smile a little fondly despite his current attitude towards the man. 

He arrives at the appointed address, disembarks the taxi, and finds himself, bewilderingly, standing in front of an upscale milliner’s shop. A brass bell fixed above the door announces his entrance, and a feeble-looking man so elderly he appears to be half-mummified already glances up from where he’s hunched over an elaborate pile of lace and feathers.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Um, yes, I’m looking for…” (he hazards a quick glance down at the previously-indiscernible text from Sherlock), “um… an emerald fascinator.”

The mummy-man narrows his eyes and says nothing, but gestures vaguely towards a damask curtain at the back of the shop. John takes his leave without further pleasantries.

Behind the curtain is a narrow, steep staircase, which he scales at what turns out to be an ill-advised clip; by the time he reaches the doorframe at the top of it, he’s out of breath and his hairline is wicked with moisture. He pauses a moment to collect himself before rapping briskly against the rough-hewn wood of the door.

“Who’s there?”

Adler’s voice. He’s already irritated. 

“ _‘Emerald fascinator,’_ apparently.”

The door swings open to reveal Irene, looking as serene as if she’d been expecting him all along to drop in for a casual social visit.

“John _Hamish_ Watson, come to call on little old me? What a pleasure. Come in.” She turns from the doorway and disappears down a dim, low-ceilinged hallway. He follows, taking care to close the door and fasten the three industrial-grade deadbolts behind him. The door is unnaturally heavy, and he assesses that it must be reinforced. He reaches the end of the hall and steps into what seems to be another dimension.

It’s a shabby but bright studio flat, with light, exposed wooden beams propping up the ancient roof and a layer of chalk-pale paint peeling from the walls. The wall facing the street is comprised of an impressive bank of casement windows, and a skylight casts a dazzling patch of sun across the worn oak floorboards. There’s a small bed in one corner covered in a tattered quilt, a ratty overstuffed armchair beside a bricked-over fireplace, and a bank of cupboards lining the back wall. There’s a tiny table and two mismatched wooden chairs, an electric kettle, a toaster, and a hotplate. All in all, a cozy-- if tiny-- fully-functional flat.

He tries to disguise his surprise, but he has a feeling Irene isn’t fooled. She gives him a knowing smile as he looks around the place before making her way to the kettle and filling it at the small basin sink.

He narrows his eyes and takes in the entirety of her appearance as she busies herself with the tea. Like before, she’s dressed like some sort of athleisure-wear model, in a pair of cropped linen pants and a flowy, lightweight asymmetrical grey sweater that looks temptingly soft to the touch. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she’s foregone both makeup and shoes.

It’s such a complete reversal from the last time they’d crossed paths, all those years ago. Back then, her structured dresses, severe hairstyle, and precise makeup had made her practically ooze sex and power. And now?

Now she was projecting _innocence. Helplessness. Normalcy._ Actually, this was far worse than being _normal--_ she looked downright _ordinary._ It’s relentlessly off-putting.

“So. What brings you to Brixton, Dr. Watson? I have a feeling this isn’t purely a social visit.”

“Sherlock called. Your life may be in danger.”

She rummages through the cupboard and produces two mugs, which she places on the table with a firm _clack._

“Oh, that. Yes, he texted me about the situation with MI5. Rotten business, really.” She produces two teabags and folds them into the cups, then grabs a few packets of sugar off the countertop and tosses them onto the table as well. “Hope you don’t need milk; no fridge in here.”

“Quite alright.” He dutifully turns his attention from her back to the flat, securing the perimeter and checking for all possible points of egress. Upon inspection, the quarrels of the windows are reinforced steel, and the refraction of the sun through the skylight suggests it’s bulletproof glass. _Interesting._

“When he said I needed extra protection, I rather assumed he’d come over himself. Didn’t realise he was contracting out his guard dog.”

John rolls his eyes as he lowers himself into one of the wooden chairs at the table, pulling the piping mug of tea towards him. “Sorry, but your Whitney-Houston’s- _Bodyguard_ erotic role-play session will have to wait; You’re stuck with me. Oh, and my Army-regulation sniper training. Sorry to be such a disappointment.”

She laughs amicably as she joins him at the table, and he once again has to mentally prompt himself to remember that she’s _dangerous._ She looks so relaxed here, one foot tucked beneath herself as she cradles her mug and takes a sip, the cold, calculating expression he remembers from that scandal in Belgravia replaced by a casual, indifferent ease. Her eyes are warm and earnest, and she seems almost… _friendly?_

Not likely. It’s every bit as premeditated and intentional as her prior persona. He steels himself accordingly.

“So. Seems I’ve been caught up in yet another government scandal. How dreadfully mundane; was rather hoping for something more interesting this time around.”

John snorts into his mug. “I’m sorry, you worked for years as a dominatrix-for-hire catering to the upper echelons of society, gathered all their dirty secrets for your personal blackmail bank, and you’re _inconvenienced_ that that decision keeps circling ‘round to bite you in the arse?”

She smiles again, just a twinkle of sarcasm catching in the gleam of her eye. “Do you know why I became a dominatrix?”

John shrugs. “The fashion? The money? The opportunity to see the Crown’s finest in all their pasty, fleshy glory?”

It’s her turn to roll her eyes. “What drew you to Sherlock?”

John sits back in his chair, appraising the question. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“I thought we were being honest now, one Dom to another. What drew you to Sherlock?”

John narrows his eyes. “I wasn’t attracted to him as a Dom, I don’t even _refer_ to myself as a Dom. The power dynamics, that’s just one thing between us. It’s not everything.”

Irene sighs and drums her perfect nails against the porcelain of her cup. “No, it’s not everything. But there was _something_ about him, wasn’t there? Something drew you to him. Something flagged your dominant tendencies and said, _‘Here is a Sub in need of a hand.’”_

“That’s a load of bollocks. We don’t define ourselves like that.”

“How so?”

“How so? Let’s start with the fact that most of the people we work with don’t even know we’re romantically or physically involved, let alone legally bound and raising a child. And for those who _do_ know we’re involved, word around the water cooler is that they’ve got a pool going about which of us is the _top_ and which is the _bottom_ and all that nonsense. Sherlock is relentlessly, insufferably bossy, and God help me, I cater to his every whim. So. Not exactly a _conventional_ Dom/Sub relationship.”

He has no idea why he’s telling her all this with such candid honesty, no clue what’s compelling him to divulge this part of themselves to her. Perhaps it’s just refreshing to talk about it to someone he knows won’t judge him for it.

Either way, she just shakes her head witheringly. “You know how your relationship works in your day-to-day life has _jack all_ to do with sexual power dynamics. You let him walk all over you in public, because he wants you to walk all over him in private. Tit for tat. Simple. Tale as old as time”

“And what, that’s what you saw in him the first time you crossed paths? He made your magical _Dom-sense_ tingle?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes.” 

John eyes her skeptically. “So that’s your superpower, is it? You can take one look at people and know what they _like?_ See someone with submissive tendencies and you try and take them _down?_ And what, when you see someone with dominant tendencies, do you _submit_ to them?”

“I’m a _dominatrix,_ not a prostitute, Dr. Watson.” Her tone is suddenly sharp. “I take on clients whose interests overlap with my own. I’m not some sort of sexual chameleon; I know what I like, and I cater to clients who enjoy being on the receiving end of that.”

“Sherlock wasn’t your _client.”_

“No, no he wasn’t.” She looks suddenly wistful. “You know what drew _me_ to him?”

John doesn’t answer. He’s not so sure he likes the direction this is headed anymore.

“That I couldn’t read him. I knew he had submissive tendencies, that much was clear, I knew he was crying out for a firm hand to put him in place, in desperate need of guidance and attention and _yet…_ I pride myself on knowing what my Subs want. But he was an enigma. He wouldn’t submit to me, no matter what tricks I tried. I couldn’t figure out what kind of Sub he _wanted_ to be. Would he be one of the feisty ones, who flails and fights tooth and nail until you assert your absolute authority over them, force them down? Or would he be one of those surprising ones, who’s all confidence and swagger until you bring them to their knees, and then suddenly they’re as sweet and docile as a kitten?”

_Both,_ John’s brain unhelpfully interjects.

“Finding out the answer to that question is why I became a dominatrix. I don’t just love kinky sex, I don’t just love willful deviance, I love _power. Sex_ is power. _Money_ is power. _Secrets_ are power. _Knowledge_ is power. I’m a powerful woman, and the root of that power is my ability to know what people _like._ And Sherlock Holmes was a puzzle I never quite solved.”

John chuckles. “Ironic. To him, _you’re_ the puzzle _he_ never quite solved. The root of his power is his ability to know who people _are._ And you eluded him completely. He never got over it.”

“Mmm. A rather interesting thought, isn’t it? The two of us like a pair of mirrors, reflecting impressions back at one another, unable to ever reveal what’s hidden behind them.”

“Is that why you loved him?”

Irene chokes on a swallow of tea. _“Loved_ him? I didn’t love him. I _wanted_ him, yes, I _wanted_ him the way all Doms want a Sub, to exert power over him, to claim him and own him and make him mine. But I didn’t _love_ him, don’t be ridiculous.”

John raises an eyebrow incredulously. “He told me what happened in Mycroft’s office with your phone. You almost had him fooled, you know. Almost made him believe that you were _that good._ That he’d somehow misread your vital signs, miscalculated your pulse point, misperceived your pupils.”

“You know what _else_ besides _attraction_ causes dilated pupils and an elevated pulse point? _Lying,_ Dr. Watson. Stop being obtuse.”

“And the passphrase for the phone? What about that? Do you use the name of _every_ Sub you come across, and it’s just your flavour-of-the-week?”

“Do you think I’m a love-crossed schoolgirl? That the passphrase on my phone was the adult equivalent of scrawling _Mrs. Irene Holmes_ in the margins of my notebooks with a glitter pen? _Do_ grow up.”

John lets out an exasperated huff. “So then what, it was just a funny coincidence? 7-4-3-7 _happens_ to be your lucky lotto numbers?”

Irene looks endlessly exasperated. “Put yourself in my shoes in that situation. I needed somewhere safe to keep that phone while I was on the run. I needed someone who would protect it, who would willingly risk life and limb for it. I gave Sherlock that phone with the full knowledge that he’d _obsessively_ try and crack it, and refuse to let it go until he did. That made him the perfect guardian for my most prized possession.

“So. There were two possibilities at play in this scenario. Option One: He _wouldn’t_ crack it. In that case, no harm, no foul; there was no way he’d give up the phone without accessing it, so I knew it would remain safely in his possession.

“But _ah,_ then what about Option Two: What if he _did_ crack it? In that case, I had to ensure he’d remain on my side, utterly devoted to me and to the protection of my secrets. So what’s the best way to convince him to do that? Make him believe I was in love with him. If he discovered I’d used his _name_ to protect all my most valuable secrets, well… Would there be anything he wouldn’t do to protect _me?”_

John’s vision feels like it’s narrowing, the pieces from all those years ago finally falling into place.

“What I didn’t account for was apparently Secret Option Three: He cracks the bloody thing hours too late in front of a senior member of the damn government. _Not_ a scenario I’d taken into consideration. Alas, the best-laid plans…” She lapses off into a ponderous silence, her gaze distant.

A slow, dawning realisation is coming over him, and he’s not quite sure what to make of it. He’s _indignant,_ of course; indignant on Sherlock’s behalf that she had played him so callously, indignant on his own behalf that she’d looped him in and played Sherlock against him in her little game of cat-and-mouse, indignant that she’d so nearly gotten away with it.

But there’s also a glimmer of _relief._ Relief that she never loved him. Relief that he never loved her. And relief that, if nothing else, her games had forced the sexual tension between himself and Sherlock to a breaking point, so that they’d _finally_ taken up a physical relationship with one another mere weeks after the resolution of her case.

“So you never loved him.”

“No, Dr. Watson.” She gives him a reassuring smile. “I _wanted_ him, the same way I want a new diamond or a new toy or a new plaything. But I didn’t love him. Not like you. Never like you.” She pauses, and it’s with an almost wistful tone that she continues. “You two are a matched set. Dom/Sub, Alpha/Beta, Yin/Yang, call it what you will, but it’s a _rare_ thing, a _true_ thing, what the two of you share. It’s not to be taken for granted. And you have to know I would never come between that.”

“Then why do you keep asking him to dinner?”

She shrugs and gives him a mischievous smile. “What, you two never _dine out?”_

John shoots her a dirty look. “No, I’m afraid we _eat in_ exclusively these days.”

She takes a measured sip of tea. “Well, if you ever change your mind. I know a place where we could arrange a _lovely_ meal for three.”

John shakes his head. “Oh, I’m sure you do.” He downs the last of his tea, then stands and makes his way to keep watch by the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Living for the comments thread.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a reference in this chapter to some events that occurred at the beginning of their acquaintanceship with Aaron that are from the "Possession" installment of this series (Chapter 2, to be precise)-- as always, not essential that you've read it, but in this case I think it helps explain some of the events described here!

The waiting is agony.

But once Aaron had made contact with his mole, there was nothing to do _but_ wait. The first few hours were actually quite productive; Sherlock spent the time picking Aaron’s brain about the case, comparing their intel, and drawing connections between their individual smatterings of evidence.

But that could only last for so long. Eventually they lapse into silence and take to staring expectantly at Aaron’s secure line, waiting for news.

Sherlock lets his mind wander. He wonders what John is up to.

Well, technically he knows what John is up to. John is keeping guard over Irene. But what were they actually _up to?_ Were they chatting about the case, the news, the weather? Were they chatting about _him?_ The thought makes the back of his neck prickle and flare with heat in an uncomfortable way. Imagining John, in Captain mode, squaring off against The Woman once and for all… he’s forced to quickly derail that train of thought, lest he become too distracted from the Work.

Aaron makes more coffee. Sherlock lets it grow cold.

Aaron makes eggs. Sherlock pushes them around his plate, not bothering to muster up an excuse for his lack of appetite.

Aaron announces he’s going to the bedroom to do yoga. Sherlock knows him well enough he doesn’t mistake that for a euphamism.

This is the interminable part of depending on exterior sources for intel, he thinks to himself. The fact that he’s _trapped,_ there’s no _action_ he can take-- it’s torture, plain and simple. He’d’ve never made it far with an official Agency, be it the Yard or MI5 or any of the more _respectable_ career paths Mycroft had pushed him towards back in the day. He was always destined to be a lone operator.

Well, a lone operator with a faithful sidekick.

And a few accomplices.

And several friends in high places.

But aside from that, a solo act through and through.

Aaron’s mobile rings, and Sherlock jolts upright from where he’d been languishing on the sofa. Aaron springs out of the bedroom and snatches up the phone in record time.

“Yeah? Yes. Yes. Hang on.” Aaron makes his way over to the console where his stereo system resides, and pops open the cabinet beneath it. To Sherlock’s not-exactly-surprise, the door swings open to reveal a small safe. Aaron punches in the combination (his arm blocks Sherlock’s view of the keypad, and he’s not sure whether to chalk it up to coincidence or a deliberate choice, and he finds he has mixed feelings about that either way) and reaches inside, producing a laptop. He deposits it on the coffee table and boots it up, without missing a beat of his conversation.

“Yep. Yeah, sure.” Sherlock wishes he would put the damn thing on speaker phone like a _real_ friend. “Mmm. Mmmhmm. Yup, secure. Passphrase? Go… Yup. Got it. Go now. Make your excuses. I’ll take it from here.” He hangs up, his eyes still riveted to the computer’s contents.

Sherlock scooches over to peer at the screen, conscientious of not getting _too_ far into Aaron’s personal space, as John’s always complaining about him doing.

“What’s the news?”

“We were right. We’re in.”

Sherlock blinks at the screen. It’s currently just a progress bar, chugging slowly along. He cocks his head. “In... what, exactly?”

Aaron finally turns to meet his eyes, obvious excitement blooming in his expression. “Have you heard of RESERVOIR?”

“Is that a… code?”

“No, it’s a system employed to hide sensitive materials beneath a seemingly-transparent overlaid filing system.”

“And that’s what GreySphere was doing? What does that mean? We have evidence?”

Aaron’s face is alight with enthusiasm, and Sherlock can’t help but feel a bit breathless himself. “Did you ever see those pictures online of underwater lakes?”

Sherlock is lost. “Excuse me?”

“Underwater lakes. Scientists discovered that on the floor of the ocean, there are deep lakes made of fresh water, containing an entirely different ecosystem than the oceanic saltwater above them.”

Sherlock furrows his brow. “I’m pretty sure John showed me a BuzzFeed article about them once? But what’s that--”

“No one noticed that they were actual separate bodies of water until someone thought to sample a piece of seaweed from one of them, and discovered it’s a type that only grows in freshwater lakes, not at the bottom of the ocean. But sure enough, there it was.”

“So you’re saying--”

“I’m saying that in this case, Adler’s contact information was that piece of seaweed. RESERVOIR is intended to hide its infrastructure beneath the mainframe of totally innocuous, above-board software. As we suspected, GreySphere was keeping their legal accounts encrypted but transparent, like any security firm that expects to be audited. What we needed was the metaphorical _freshwater seaweed_ to alert us to the reservoir of information below.”

“And we got it?”

“We did. Well, the mole did. As a specially trained technology operative, they were able to use Adler’s phone number as the cypher and searched for it as a recurring pattern within the GreySphere mainframe. It didn’t show up in their legal files, but it alerted us to where the access point to the reservoir was located. Without knowing _exactly_ what we were looking for, we never would have found it.”

So elegant. So streamlined. So _perfect._ Sherlock feels giddy just _thinking_ about it.

“So you tapped the hidden RESERVOIR and that’s the data you’re transferring. Are you moving it to your laptop?”

Aaron shakes his head. “No, we’re pushing it directly to a secure MI5 server. With any luck, we’ll get all of it copied over before anyone at GreySphere realises the reservoir has been compromised.”

Sherlock deflates like a balloon. “So we can’t… we can’t look at it in the meantime?”

Aaron shoots him a sly grin. “I mean, I will _absolutely not_ be looking at this _incredibly sensitive data dump_ in an _unsecured location_ in the presence of a _civilian observer_. That said, I _was_ hoping you could help me draft this email…”

And with a wink, Aaron turns his screen towards Sherlock so that they can both clearly see it, and pulls up the server screen.

The files are encrypted, of course, but it doesn't take Aaron long to crack them; it seemed that storing them in RESERVOIR was secure enough from GreySphere’s point of view, so they appeared not to have bothered much with much additional encryption, assuming the files would never be found.

It’s a bounty beyond Sherlock’s wildest dreams. It’s _all there--_ names, dates, contacts, and most importantly, the intel on every GreySphere operative deployed as a contract killer. As far as the victims went, GreySphere had of course used aliases, but it didn’t take a genius to draw the line between the date of death and the known Craneworthy victims.

But it’s only a minute or two before Aaron’s brow furrows. Sherlock’s stomach drops in tandem.

“What in the hell?” Aaron’s eyes flick over the case file on the screen.

Sherlock shakes his head. “That’s not… there’s no… that’s not a Craneworthy connection. Couldn’t be, there’s no way. The dates don’t add up and the M.O. makes no sense.”

Aaron leans in closer. “Look here-- the Operation name has changed. The Craneworthy cases were all categorized under the Operation name ‘Gawain.’ Now we’re on to…’Lamorak’?”

Sherlock’s heart beats faster. “Greysphere wasn’t just cleaning up the Craneworthy case.”

Aaron swallows hard. “From the looks of it, no. They were doing a lot more dirty work than that.”

The pages keep coming, and the Operation count keeps climbing. _Kay, Percival, Bedivere…_

Sherlock chuckles. Aaron shoots him an inquisitive glance.

“The operation names. They’re the Knights of the Round Table. Round Table? GreySphere?” Aaron rolls his eyes. Sherlock just shrugs. “Sorry. I do love it when criminals get cheeky.”

That prompts a brief smile, but they quickly lapse back into solemn silence as the mountain of evidence grows ever higher.

After a while, Aaron leans back and rubs his eyes. “Christ. What do you make of all of it?”

Sherlock steeples his fingers beneath his chin and takes a deep breath. “The story seems straightforward enough. Natasha Belmont joins MI6, works the Russia desk. Somewhere along the line, she goes rogue, gets involved in bad company. Sees an opportunity. Leaves the Agency, forms her own private security company, but not without bringing along several contacts she made on the job who she knows aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. The Craneworthy case was one of the first gigs she takes once she gets into bad business. She offers her services to Margery Whycombe, her former… flatmate, lover, whatever the hell they were, to disentangle her from her husband’s misdeeds which, from the looks of it, were _not_ something he was undertaking on his own; Margery was in on it the whole time, but needed to keep her name clear for the sake of her career. Natasha takes the job and performs it admirably. And in doing so, earns the trust of both Margery _and_ the Party as a fixer.”

_“‘And the Party?’_ You mean--”

“Look.” Sherlock reaches over to navigate back a few dozen pages. “This operation, here-- _Tristan?_ The dates coincide with an unsolved murder of a Green Party candidate poised to issue a real upset in a historically conservative district. And this one--” A few more clicks. _“Gaheris?_ The date lines up with the death of a Sinn Fein MP in a car wreck in Derry, just days before an influential referendum vote in which Sinn Fein’s allegiance was yet to be declared. The death was passed off as an accident, but…”

“Jesus.” They lapse into silence as they flick through more files. “So somehow Margery Whycombe has become the de-facto contact when the Party needs a problem eliminated.”

“Well. She has got a direct line, after all.”

“And now she’s poised to become the _bloody_ Prime Minister? This is _so fucking far_ above my pay grade…” Sherlock can’t help but notice that Aaron’s looking a bit ashy, and he’s fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat. “I ought to call my boss--”

“No!” Sherlock stills his hand as he’s reaching for his mobile. “We should let the transfer finish at the very least. There’s no telling who’s in on this thing, and the least we can do is make sure we have every shred of evidence on a secure server before we start waving it about.”

Aaron rises to his feet, clearly agitated, and begins pacing the length of the small sitting room. “I don’t like this, Sherlock. This is bad, very bad, we need reinforcements.”

Sherlock nods emphatically. “Of course. And we’ll need to get Irene into protective custody immediately-- the fact we used her phone number to crack into RESERVOIR will point their operatives directly towards her. But we should wait until the transfer is finished.”

Aaron takes a deep breath, then looks at Sherlock with an imploring gaze. “Listen, I’m fine staying quiet about what _exactly_ we’ve got until the files finish transferring. But I need to start laying the groundwork to get us all out of this alive. I need to notify a few select people that we’re sitting on explosive intel and will need to maneuver quickly. They won’t need the details yet, but we’ll need to get the players into position.”

Sherlock hesitates. “But how can you trust anyone right now? We don’t know the real identities of GreySphere’s off-the-books operatives. The people they employ directly and have on their payroll, that’s easy enough, but there are code names in these files we haven’t even started to crack--”

Aaron shoots him a withering look. “Sherlock, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, I really do. I get that you operate alone, on your own terms, I _get_ that. But what we’re talking about here is a private security service staffed with former Russian operatives working on behalf of corrupt members of the damn British government who stand to inherit a great deal of power from these actions. Taking care of that is MI5’s _job._ That’s what the Agency was _created_ to do. When I joined, I swore an oath to protect Crown and Country, and I take that seriously. Don’t you?”

Though Sherlock has never sworn any type of oath to either Crown _or_ Country, he’s forced to admit that Aaron is making a fair point. And the fact that seeing Aaron worked up into a rather dazzlingly masculine patriotic fervor is appealing on several levels, that has _nothing_ to do whatsoever with his final judgement on the matter.

He hesitates for only a split second, then is forced to concede to Aaron’s logic. “Fine. Where do we start?”

“I’ll keep the circle small, telling only those who absolutely need to know. I’ll notify my boss that GreySphere is being privately deployed to commit acts of murder by members of the government and that we need to cast a wide net to bring in everyone connected to the company.”

“Fair.”

“I’ll need to tell my colleague in charge of witness protection that we’re bringing Irene in. My colleague doesn’t need to know _why_ she needs protection, just that she needs to be sheltered until the Agency has the situation under control and they can evaluate her level of continued risk.”

Sherlock swallows. “Fine.”

“Okay. And last, I’m going to call my partner to come with us to extract Irene from your bolthole and get her to a secure MI5 location. I trust John, and I know you believe he can keep her safe, but we can’t risk having a civilian with a firearm on the scene if things go belly-up. Fair?”

Sherlock is begrudgingly forced to conclude that Aaron is probably right on this front as well. “Alright.”

Aaron offers him a reassuring smile. “Good. Let me get to work.”

****************

Aaron disappears into the bedroom once more and closes the door. Sherlock can vaguely make out his voice speaking in clipped, murmured tones, but he forces himself to turn his attention back to the transferring files. He needed to trust Aaron to do his job; that part was beyond his scope.

Barely twenty minutes have passed before a hiccup on the computer screen captures his attention. There’s a duplicate transfer, a pause, and then--

The screen goes dark.

His heart clenches. He uses his rudimentary programming knowledge and attempts three commands-- a refresh, a reset, and a restart-- but to no avail. The transfer had been aborted locally.

Swearing under his breath, he scrambles to the bedroom door and bursts through, interrupting Aaron mid-sentence.

“The transfer’s been aborted. They’re on to us. We need to move _now.”_

“Shit.” Aaron turns his attention back to his phone. “Did you hear that? Time is short. Reddick’s got the team on the move to GreySphere HQ, but can you meet us at the bolthole to move the source? I’ll text you the address… Yeah. Yes. Okay. See you there.” He hangs up and tosses his phone on the nightstand, then strips off his t-shirt and sweatpants and rummages through his wardrobe, procuring a pair of denims and a sweater, hopping a bit awkwardly as he tugs them on. Sherlock diplomatically averts his eyes.

“I’ll text John to let him know we’re on our way but to be on high alert.”

“Good. My partner will meet us there.” He pushes past Sherlock out the door and back to the sitting room, where he returns to the safe and pulls out his firearm. He checks that it’s loaded and gives a curt nod. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

The cab can’t drive fast enough. Sherlock feels like he’s about to crawl out of his own skin, while beside him, Aaron’s leg is twitching nervously as they lurch their way towards Brixton. Aaron’s still on his phone, texting frantically, presumably attempting to coordinate the response with his chain of command. Sherlock is grateful he doesn’t have any such red tape to get in his way.

They roll up in front of the appointed address and Sherlock barely issues a passing wave as they dash past Mr. Clarke, the ancient milliner who long ago had fortified the flat above his shop to serve as a safe-room _‘for when the Germans come back to finish the job,’_ and who kindly lets Sherlock use it as a bolthole so long as they’re not currently under attack from Prussian invaders. He takes the stairs two at a time, Aaron hot on his heels, and pounds on the door at the top of the stairs with perhaps a bit more force than strictly necessary.

“Who’s there?” John’s voice. Steady and stern, as always.

_“Emerald fascinator.”_

The door swings open and John ushers them quickly inside, exchanging a nod with Sherlock and a tight smile with Aaron.

“My partner Devins will be here in three minutes to provide backup,” Aaron declares as they make their way down the hallway into the main part of the flat.

“Ooh, even _more_ company? You boys sure do know how to make a girl feel special.” Of course, typical Irene, lounging in the armchair by the fireplace, doing her best to look casual. However, Sherlock notes that she’s put on shoes. Given up the barefoot facade and ready to run, then; he’s internally pleased that she’s taking the threat seriously, even if she doesn’t show it.

“You must be Irene. I’m Aaron. I’m part of the MI5 team that will be escorting you to a safehouse while the Agency reviews your case.”

“Irene. Enchanted.” She doesn’t stand up, but she does offer her hand, which Aaron takes with a somber shake.

More banging in the hallway makes them all jump, but it’s quickly followed by a brusk male voice from the other side of the door.

“It’s Devins. Open up.”

“I’ll get him.” Aaron turns back down the hallway as John positions himself by the window, taking a sniper’s-eye view of the street below. Sherlock surveys the perimeter before positioning himself by the door to the bathroom. The bathroom window inside is too small for anyone to fit through, but it being the only other door in the room, it feels logical.

“So.” Irene looks up at him eagerly. “Cracked another one, did you? Who’s the big baddie this time? Was it someone from _Splay?”_

Sherlock can’t think of much of a reason to hide any of it from her; it would certainly all come to light during the review of her case.

“Tangentially, yes. The security at Splay was run by a company called GreySphere, which is owned and operated by a former MI6 agent who was taking out hits for pay on behalf of a senior member of the government.”

“And how does that tie into Craneworthy?”

“The senior member of the government contracting the hits was his wife, Margery Whycombe. The head of GreySphere is her former lover, Natasha Belmont.”

There’s a flicker of recognition across Irene’s face. “Natasha Belmont?”

John’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Let me guess. You know her?”

“Or rather, _you know what she likes?”_ Sherlock can’t help but interject.

For once, Irene doesn’t look typically smug in response. “We had an ongoing… _thing_ some years back.”

Sherlock appraises this confession shrewdly. “Was it personal or professional?”

“Strictly personal. She wasn’t a client.”

“But did she know what you did professionally?”

“Yes, I was up front with her about it.”

Sherlock exchanges a meaningful look with John. “Which means she would have known about your website, and known you were for hire. She was the one who used you to catfish Margery’s targets. Paid you to bring them to a club whose security she ran, so she could collect incriminating evidence for blackmail.”

John shakes his head. “But if she had blackmail, why kill them?”

“It seems that murder was always the end game, but it would have been far too suspicious to have that many people involved in the Craneworthy affair show up dead in the span of a few months. My guess? She used the blackmail to cow them into silence until she could _gradually_ eliminate them all one by one, making the common thread between the victims much harder to detect from the outside.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. That _is_ rather unfortunate.” There’s an unfamiliar male voice from the end of the hallway, followed by the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps interspersed with agitated shuffling. Sherlock’s spine straightens instinctively.

“And here I thought we might be able to come to some sort of arrangement to keep this all quiet, but it seems Miss _Adler_ here knows just a _bit too much_ for her own good. Such a pity.”

From the dark recess of the hall, Aaron emerges, his face pale and expression grim. His hands are raised in the air beside his head as he maneuvers slowly into the room. Directly behind him is an unfamiliar man with dark hair, a leather jacket, and a look of deep animosity in his eyes.

He’s holding a gun to Aaron’s head.

Irene’s on her feet in an instant, but she doesn’t move beyond that. John is frozen in place, back ramrod straight, eyes fixed on the stranger among them. Sherlock is suddenly finding it very hard to breathe.

“Who are you?”

“He was my partner on the Craneworthy investigation. At least, I _thought_ he was,” Aaron replies through gritted teeth. “Seems MI5 has a double-agent in their midst.”

Sherlock very diplomatically does not say _‘I told you so.’_ Out loud, at least.

“What do you want?” John speaks up, and his voice sounds unnaturally steady.

“I’m here to escort Miss Adler to an urgent meeting with some _very_ important people. So chop chop, sweetheart, let’s be quite quick about this, time is of the essence--”

“What do you want with her?” Sherlock interrupts. “The game is up. GreySphere has been exposed. The evidence is on a secure MI5 server. They’ll have all they need to take your organisation down with or without Irene’s testimony.”

Devins just sneers at him. “GreySphere is only one arm of many. And trust me, the bosses like to make an _example_ of witnesses who try and squeal.”

Irene shifts uncomfortably on her feet, her gaze darting to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Aaron is still standing stock still, clearly very cognisant of the barrel pressed against his skull.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Devins continues. “You see that grey sedan parked outside?” Irene glances out the window and nods. “You’re going to walk downstairs and get into it. I’ll be watching from up here. You do that, I let my good mate here go, and no one gets hurt. Understood?”

Irene nods slowly. As she turns towards the door, Sherlock sees her lock eyes with John’s as she gives an infinitely small shake of her head.

But of course, John would never just let her go. The second she takes one step towards the hallway, he’s in position, weapon drawn, pointing it directly at Devins-- but unable to get a clear shot past Aaron.

For a moment, time stands still.

Then Devins chuckles. _“Interesting._ Who have we here? Your own personal bodyguard?”

“Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I strongly suggest you put your weapon down.”

Devins cocks the gun against Aaron’s head. “Not likely, _Captain._ I’ve got my own bounty right here.”

And suddenly, Sherlock flashes back to that night what feels like a lifetime ago, when Aaron had first made a pass at Sherlock. John had challenged him to a shootout in the alley behind the pub (they had admittedly all been a bit pissed). Aaron had missed the beer bottle target with his one shot. John had hit it from thirty paces without blinking.

In this moment, here and now, he sees Aaron and John’s eyes connect, and he knows Aaron is remembering the exact same thing. A look of resolute serenity comes across his face, and he gives a nod so slight it’s nearly indiscernible.

But John sees it. His lip quirks. He nods back.

Aaron ducks. John takes the shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COM-MENTS! COM-MENTS! COM-MENTS!
> 
> (I'm bored, leave comments.)


	11. Chapter 11

If Sherlock had been under the impression that being subjected to the Yard’s mandatory post-case protocol was the most unbearably tedious torture to which he, as a detective, could ever be subjected, he was quickly forced to admit that he’d been nothing short of criminally naive and narrow-minded in his analysis.

Because as it turns out, the Yard’s standards and practices simply _paled_ in comparison to those of not one but _two_ high-level Agencies, especially when they were both simultaneously vying for control and volleying the blame. It was a _relentless_ bureaucratic nightmare, and all Sherlock wanted was to go back to the flat, let John fuck his brains out, and then get some well-earned sleep. But instead he’s subjected to _hours_ of questioning, a _deep dive_ of his intel and methodology, a _mountain_ of paperwork, and worst of all, he has to do it all _right then and there, in the MI5 offices, under armed supervision_ until the situation was sufficiently ‘brought under control.’ John had of course agreed they would comply without complaint, and had been expertly dodging the daggers Sherlock had been glaring at him ever since.

It hadn’t always been _quite_ this tedious. In fact, the first few minutes after John shot Devins were quite interesting, indeed! First the arrival of what appeared to be an MI5 super-spy clown car, out of which an estimated 20 officers swarmed and charged the bolthole with impressive vigor and rigorous professionalism. Next, a team of medics, swooping in to take over Devins’s triage from John’s expert hands. Then, the representatives from the witness protection programme, conferring with Aaron in hushed, urgent tones before ushering Irene quickly from the premises without even the chance for a backwards glance. It all took place in a breathless, elegant progression of drama quite worthy of a symphonic underscore or perhaps a flashy film montage. But then the montage would have faded to black, and cut directly to the story’s inevitable conclusion.

Because no one in their right mind would be able to tolerate the _interminable_ tedium of official MI5 bureaucracy. He’s almost certain John’s going to fall asleep before they’ve made it through all the red tape, and the thought of not being shagged into oblivion at the end of all this is so viscerally abhorrent that he stops glaring at John and subtly transitions into flirting with him-- casting doe eyes at him from across the room, peering up at him from beneath demure lashes as they review even more paperwork, biting his lip whenever he catches John glancing his way, and finally scrunching down his sock to shoot John just the _tiniest_ peep of anklebone when he crosses his legs and angles himself in John’s direction. He rounds it all off by popping open another button on his shirt, exposing as much of his neck as he felt he could get away with in present company, and then tipping his head to the side as delicately as possible.

He can’t be certain John’s noticed, though he _has_ licked his lips 42 times in the last 60 minutes, so… Sherlock can be fairly confident he’s got him where he wants him. Or, as close to _where he wants him_ as he can get under these circumstances.

Unless… unless he just stood up and took what he wanted. Unless he just strode across this claustrophobic cell of a conference room and straddled John where he sat stunned in his chair, and then ground against him until they both came in their pants, moaning and shaking with ecstasy. Unless instead, he got on his knees and _crawled_ across the room, unfastened John’s flies with his teeth, and sucked him off right then and there. Would the security guard stay and watch? Would any of the agents passing by the bulletproof glass of the window stop and peer inside, watching with lust-glazed eyes as Sherlock serviced John to completion?

And if _Aaron_ were one of those officers who stopped, would _he_ stay? Would he let himself in, dismiss the guard in the corner, lock the door, snap the blinds shut?

Would he come up behind John’s chair and pull him to his feet, then push him forward to fuck Sherlock’s face? Would Sherlock look up just in time to see Aaron wrapping his strong arms around John’s torso and pressing against him from behind, burying his lips at the crook of John’s neck before licking down to his scarred shoulder?

Would John bring up his right arm to lace his fingers into Aaron’s hair, gently whispering into his ear: _‘Look, watch. Watch what he lets me do to him.’_ Then he’d wrap the fingers of his left hand into Sherlock’s hair and deep-throat him forcefully, until Sherlock gagged and his eyes watered, but he wouldn’t close them because his gaze would be locked with Aaron’s, arousal flaming in his cheeks as he lets Aaron witness what he lets John Watson _do_ to him.

And then John would turn his head and kiss Aaron, hard and forceful and _deep._ And Sherlock would feel John’s cock twitch and harden in his mouth, feel his abs quiver in anticipation, feel the rumble of his moan as he takes his pleasure. 

But then John would pull out, yank Sherlock’s head away, leaving him bereft. He’d order him to go sit in the chair with his hands behind his back, and then he’d tell Aaron to pull down his trousers and bend over the conference table.

And Aaron would have to. He’d _have_ to, because now he knows what Captain John Watson is capable of. He can shoot a man without blinking an eye in defense of his comrades. He can then use those _very same hands_ to save that man’s _life,_ taking and giving _life itself_ like he was some sort Earth-bound _God,_ dual deity of war and mercy. Then after _that,_ John can come home and take down a proud, arrogant, brilliant _genius_ who thought his body was nothing but his brain until the holiness that is John Watson dragged him to his knees and fucked him until his _body_ was the only thing that mattered anymore. 

Aaron’s seen all that now, so he’d _have_ to do what John says. 

So he’d pull down his trousers and pants, exposing the _perfect_ solid swell of his arse, and drape himself over the table. John would come up behind him and massage his muscled arsecheek with one hand, stroking his own cock with the other. It would still be slick with Sherlock’s spit. Then he’d line himself up and thrust inside. 

Aaron’s back would bow as John impaled him, raring his torso and wailing in shock. John would grunt, forceful and dominant as he’d push Aaron’s chest down flush against the table. Aaron would writhe and cry out--

“It’s your lucky day! Your discharge papers have cleared.”

Sherlock jolts back to reality to find Aaron striding into the room, trousers disappointingly up and fastened, waving another fat stack of papers in their direction. He casually clears his throat before sliding his chair further under the table to disguise the rather undignified state of his cock.

John seems to have emerged from his stupor as well and is shooting Aaron a fake, placating smile. Despite his initial enthusiastic cooperation, the lengthy proceedings were apparently wearing on even _John’s_ seemingly-endless reserve of patience, and he’d spent the last 40 minutes glowering at his empty coffee cup with a rather vacant, unamused expression of deep inconvenience. Even Sherlock’s coy attempts at flirtation had grown stale by that point.

“So. Here’s the deal.” Aaron pulls out a chair and slaps down the pile of papers. John leans forward to bury his face in his hands.

“Christ, mate, we’re all bloody exhausted. Just show us where to sign and we’ll circle back with you after we’ve gotten some rest.”

Sherlock is surprised John’s being so curt; he was usually the one reminding _Sherlock_ to be polite.

“I’m so sorry, but honestly, this’ll just take a second-- I’ll keep it brief.” (Sherlock is fairly certain he hears John mutter _‘Unlikely’_ under his breath, and he can’t help but smirk at the fact that John seems to be taking _his_ side for once.) “Our team has been able to make quick work of the data dump, and we’re confident that as of right now, we have all parties who would pose immediate danger in custody.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “That was fast.”

“From what we can tell, we caught them completely by surprise. About three quarters of the individuals we wanted to bring in were actually _at_ GreySphere’s HQ when we raided it; the rest we pretty easily located at their homes or on-site doing the above-board security work they were contracted to do. However--”

“Always a _‘however,’”_ John mutters.

“We obviously can’t be completely certain at this point that we know the identities of everyone they had in their web. We’ve got days worth of interrogations to get through, and piles of data to sort. There’s always a chance there are still moles or rogue operatives at large. So this--” He extends a form in John’s direction-- “Is an offer to have an agent keep your home under surveillance until we’re able to suss out your level of immediate risk.”

For a split second, Sherlock’s pervy little lizard brain hops _straight_ back into his fantasy, and he’s tempted to offer to let Aaron come back to the flat and supervise the proceedings. For _safety’s_ sake, of course--

“That won’t be necessary.” John levels Aaron with a cool gaze, the unspoken implication of, _You’ve seen I’m quite capable of taking care of my own, thank-you-very-much_ echoing loudly in the resounding silence.

“Yeah, I figured that.” Aaron quirks him an amicable smile, which he’s relieved to see John return; even _John_ couldn’t remain impervious to Aaron’s relentless charm. “You can just sign here, saying you decline.”

“Righto.” John takes the pen and puts it to the paper, which Aaron swiftly collects and adds back to the pile.

“Well, that wraps it up. You’re free to go.”

“Halle- _fucking_ -lujah.” John rises to his feet and cracks his back as Aaron joins him and extends his hand.

 _“Captain_ Watson. A real pleasure, as always.”

“Likewise.” John smirks and shakes his hand, then turns to Sherlock. “You coming?”

Sherlock takes a quick mental gauge of the state of his erection, concludes it’s receded enough to not be imminently noticeable, and moves to stand as well. “Right. Yes, we’ll just be going.”

He makes to follow John towards the door, but they’re interrupted once more by Aaron. “And John, look, I just wanted to say--”

John casts an amused look over his shoulder, hand frozen on the handle of the door. “Whatever it is, it can wait until we’ve had some drinks, yeah? Call us later this week, we’ll meet up.”

Aaron grins. “Will do. Oh, and by the way? Any possessions of yours that were confiscated at the scene are now available for pick-up at the front desk. You should make sure to grab them on your way out.”

John, _clearly_ delighted at the prospect of reclaiming his beloved firearm, practically skips out the door. Sherlock gives Aaron a grateful wink before following in his wake.

Sherlock doesn’t remember much of the cab ride back to the flat. He can _feel_ the electricity between himself and John, that undeniable _heat_ of anticipation, the thick, palpable promise of what was to come, and his brain helpfully provides a delightful highlights reel of some of the more lavacious activities they’ve engaged in recently. He knows it’s pointless to try and predict what John will do with him once they’re alone; when they’re Unwinding, John is endlessly unpredictable and dazzlingly innovative, catching Sherlock relentlessly off-guard no matter how many times they’ve been down this road. Sherlock focuses on breathing, and on enjoying this moment of glorious suspension, the world narrowed to the single invisible thread of promise tying him inextricably to John Watson.

John is quiet. His face is cool, relaxed, unreadable. There’d been tension in the corners of his eyes when they’d left MI5 HQ, but it’s gone now, evaporated with the weight of the enormity of everything they’d just experienced. It’s been replaced by the look of casual determination that Sherlock knows so well; the look of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and will not stop until he gets it.

John still doesn’t speak as they disembark the taxi and make their way up the stairs. It’s driving Sherlock mad; he can’t _wait_ for his first order, can’t _wait_ to find out what John wants from him, can’t _wait_ to discover what paces he’s about to be put through on their journey to mutual ecstasy. He has to will himself not to go to his knees right there on the staircase, to crawl and grovel and _beg,_ but he knows if that’s what John wanted, he’d ask for it. So instead, he follows John dutifully through the front door of the flat, mute, obedient, _good._

The minute he crosses the threshold, he finds himself being violently spun around and slammed against the doorframe as the ominous _clack_ of the door closing behind them announces their triumphant return to total privacy. Then John’s lips are on his, and his hands are _everywhere_ , running up Sherlock’s sides, gripping his jaw, his hair, his back, his arse. It’s gruff and clumsy, and Sherlock melts bonelessly against the wall as John ruts against him, sucking at the flesh of his neck and sinking his teeth into his clavicle. Sherlock shudders at the pain and John moans against his skin, hot and greedy, and Sherlock tips his head back to succumb.

At some point John’s lips find his again, and they’re half kissing, half biting at one other, feral and desperate, reality a mess of tongues and teeth and nimble fingers and clumsy feet. It’s so passionate it feels like _fire,_ like everything inside of himself is lit up and radiating outwards, his nerves alight with sheer _want._ John’s not giving him orders, he’s just _moving_ him where he wants him, and Sherlock’s reminded of their encounters ages ago, back before the Fall. 

They weren’t really Dom and Sub back then, and neither of them knew anything about _Power Dynamics_ or _Sexual Submission_ or the mantra _Safe, Sane, Consensual,_ or anything as official as that. But even then, all those years back, there was a sharp, gritty edge to their encounters, something _just_ beyond vanilla, a streak of subverted deviance that echoed their less-than-conventional day-to-day lifestyle. Here and now, Sherlock can _feel_ that again, the undercurrent of _danger_ and _desire_ that flows between them as they move into this sacred space.

John’s grip reorients him yet again, and he lets out a clipped yelp of surprise as he finds himself forced forward over the arm of the sofa. He can feel John reaching around him to fumble with his flies, yanking down his pants and trousers to reveal his arse but leaving his throbbing cock trapped in his pants, and he grunts and squirms at the indignity of it all, fingernails slicing half-moon indents into the worn leather of the sofa cushion.

“No. Down.” John’s hand firm on the back of his neck. He stills. “Stay.”

As if he could do anything else. He’s lost, hopelessly strung out on the inferno of endorphins blazing through his body. He stares down at his own fingers, knuckles white, trembling with need. His breath is coming in erratic heaves. He can’t process. Doesn’t need to. Just be.

John’s fingers inside him suddenly, slippery and slick. It’s a perfunctory preparation, gruff and graceless, the intrusion as painful as it is welcome. Tears sting his eyes as he spreads his legs and cants his hips, steeling himself for the inevitable.

And the inevitable comes, far too soon and yet not soon enough. The blunt breach, the searing stretch, the bloom of his burgeoning arousal blossoming into something far more acute. His diaphragm spasms, stuttering his breath, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he fights through the welcome strain, knowing the pleasure that awaits him on the other side. He’s distantly aware that he’s issuing pathetic little cries through gritted teeth, succumbing completely to the power of the man controlling him.

John grips him by the hair at the base of his neck with one hand, forcing his torso down, holding him firmly in position. His other hand finds its place on Sherlock’s hip, his calloused fingers sinking into the tender flesh there, manipulating his prey into place. Sherlock goes willingly, blindly, eyes unseeing and breath uneven as he gives up his transport for use.

John fucks him efficiently, hammering against his prostate with a deliberate relentlessness that makes Sherlock feel as if the whole of his insides are spiralling in on themselves, collapsing into a centre of pleasure to which John is devoting his unwavering attention. Everything feels fuzzy and surreal save for the bright, brilliant flares of alternating agony and ecstasy twisting and contorting inside his body where John’s penetrating him, a double-helix of sensation coiling and unraveling with each thrust.

His forehead bows between his forearms, resting against the worn leather of the sofa, and he can feel his eyes slam shut as the corporeal sensations overtake him.

He comes. He’s not really expecting it, it happens so quickly, like being blindsided by a perfectly-aimed left hook, his orgasm punched out of him from deep inside as he pulses hot spurts into his pants. He moans, more to let John know what’s happening than for his own benefit, though he’s fairly certain he’s clenching so hard around John’s cock that there’s no way John could misconstrue the present turn of events.

“Mmmm, fuck, yeah! That’s it, that’s it, little more, come on…” John coaxes him through it, his motions transitioning from sharp thrusts to languid rolls of his hips as he angles his prick to rub over Sherlock’s prostate in firm undulations, milking every last drop of come out of his current release. Sherlock shudders and swears as he feels the warm pool in his pants expand.

He finishes, and John pulls out before helping him upright, strong arms wrapping around him to make quick work of the buttons of his shirt, peeling it off along with his blazer to discard somewhere behind them, then urging Sherlock to toe of his shoes and socks as John helps him shimmy out of his trousers and damp pants. Sherlock complies in a dreamy daze, and John’s hands are so gentle as they maneuver him, finally depositing his fully-nude form onto the sofa, sweat-soaked and shivering.

“You’re so gorgeous, so brilliant, God, mmm…” John’s lips seem fastened to Sherlock’s skin by a magnetic pull, his tongue tracing slick trails up and down Sherlock’s thrumming veins. Sherlock’s body responds to the pull of John’s poles, arching up towards the source of such tender ministrations.

John arranges him on his back, reclined languidly with his head propped up on a pillow. Then he carefully guides Sherlock’s legs apart as he moves to kneel between them, leaning down to kiss him again and again in a deluge of affection, affirming and gentle while still demanding at the same time. Sherlock sighs as their breath intermingles, pulling his thighs back towards his chest, angling himself so that John can penetrate him once more. With practiced grace, John takes Sherlock’s left ankle in his palm and props it up on his own shoulder, opening Sherlock wide before guiding his cock back into his passage.

Sherlock curls upwards and buries his face in the crook of John’s neck, whimpering and panting at the intrusion. John rocks into him slowly, establishing a steady rhythm, giving Sherlock’s body a chance to adjust to the new angle of penetration. Sherlock can feel his passage begin to comply as his body relaxes beneath John’s weight, giving way to the welcome pressure within.

John doesn’t rush, but Sherlock can tell he’s eager to come. His lips hungrily devour Sherlock’s own as he establishes a rhythm, plundering Sherlock’s lax form in deep, rhythmic motions. Sherlock kisses him back as enthusiastically as he can muster, distinctly aware that his efforts are sloppy and disjointed but delighted in the fact that John doesn’t seem to mind one bit. They’re sighing and moaning and almost half-laughing at their adolescent eagerness and the delicious thrill of it all. For a split second John pulls away to grin down at him, and Sherlock grins back, elated in their perfection. Then John redoubles his efforts, his lips descending to latch onto Sherlock’s carotid artery, his hips snapping double-time as he seeks his release. Sherlock claws at his back, noting with delight that John is _still wearing his coat,_ and that thought sends another wave of heat rippling up his spine, which arches in sympathetic rapture.

John comes with a strangled shout, silencing himself midway to crush his lips against Sherlock’s, plunging his tongue into his mouth as he releases his seed deep inside him, claiming him completely.

They don’t move right away afterwards. John lets Sherlock’s leg drop from his shoulder to wrap around his waist instead, and they kiss for a bit as John’s cock gradually softens and finally slips out, leaving Sherlock feeling deliciously open.

At long last, John pulls himself upright into a sitting position, face still flushed and hair matted with sweat. “Christ Almighty.” He runs his fingers through his hair and hazards a glance over at Sherlock, who is still feeling rather gobsmacked and like his skin is so slick he may have physically fused with the sofa at some point during their coupling. “You alright?”

Sherlock manages a nod.

“Good. I’m gonna get you some water. Then we both need to eat something.” He rises to his feet and tucks his spent prick back into his trousers before fastening them. Sherlock revels in his own nudity juxtaposed with John’s current state; it makes him feel perfectly wanton. “Do you want a protein bar, or toast?”

John’s giving him options. Sherlock is becoming distinctly aware that they’re not having a standard session of _Unwinding,_ per se. Yes, John’s taken the lead and yes, John’s calling the shots, but he’s not giving Sherlock orders and he’s not tying him up, spanking him, edging him, or controlling his orgasms. They’re hovering in that grey area between vanilla sex and a session, and it dawns on him that he’s finding it wholly unobjectionable. There’s a time and a place for their sessions, yes. But there’s also a time and a place for their old-fashioned post-case-sex-marathons, and he finds he’s equally keen about that prospect as well.

“Um…” He considers what John has offered. “Toast. But can you put cheese on it?”

John’s midway to the kitchen but he burst out laughing, throwing Sherlock an affectionate look over his shoulder. “So you want a grilled cheese.”

Sherlock gives him his most winning smile. “Yes, please, John, that would be perfect. And tea. Definitely tea.”

John disappears into the kitchen, still chuckling to himself. “Alright, grilled cheese and tea coming right up.”

Sherlock passes the time while John’s cooking relaxing on the sofa, sipping his water and contemplating the fact that he seems to be leaking a bit, but his cock is smeared with his own semen, so there’s really no way he can avoid getting the cushions messy. It’s delightful.

John calls him to the kitchen when it’s time to eat, and they do so at the table, Sherlock nude and John still fully-clothed. It’s another _neither-here-nor-there_ moment, there are no specific instructions given or demands made, it’s just a simple, quiet meal in the comfort of their flat, wholly unremarkable save for their state of dress. John treats it as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, and Sherlock loves him for it. He loves that John understands _just_ what he needs, and he never makes him feel like a freak for it.

By the time he’s finished his sandwich and had two cups of tea, he’s feeling rather revived, and is pleased to note that his cock is in a similar state. John’s been keeping the mood light, exchanging light banter and quick witticisms between bites, but Sherlock notes there’s a haze of heat beginning to cloud his gaze, and he hopes that John will take advantage sooner rather than later.

Never one to disappoint, John clears their plates and comes to stand behind Sherlock, placing his hands gently on his shoulders and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“Feeling good, love?”

“Yes, John.” He feels _divine._

“Good. Will you show me how you like to touch your cock?”

Sherlock’s hand is on himself before the sentence is fully out of John’s mouth, and John giggles amicably as he presses another kiss into Sherlock’s curls. “Oh, that’s pretty, Very pretty indeed. Go on, love. Give me a little show.”

Sherlock relaxes into his chair, allowing his legs to splay out to the sides as he begins to pump his length in a slow, steady rhythm, giving his body time to respond to each sensual stroke.

John resumes kissing his neck, lapping gently at the shell of his ear, nibbling his earlobe, whispering sweet affirmations all the while. Sherlock can’t see him but he knows he’s _watching,_ peering over his shoulder as Sherlock stimulates himself. The thought makes his cock swell further, and he brings his other hand up to play with his sac.

“Mmmm, gorgeous, so pretty, so pretty…” John’s voice is laden with heat, and he uses his teeth to suck a love bite into the spot just below his jawline, where the callus from his violin is clearly visible. Sherlock thinks about how this means every time he plays for the next week, the spot will _burn_ and _ache,_ reminding him of his dalliance. A bead of precome leaks from the tip of his engorged member, and he sighs with contentment.

He continues to masturbate himself while John marks him up slowly, deliberately, alternating gentle nibbles with sharp bites, varying the amount of suction as he moves up and down the column of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moves his hand faster, imagining the aura of bruises that will form as a result. John’s hands tangle into Sherlock’s curls to hold him firmly in place while he works him over, and Sherlock’s hips begin to twitch upwards to meet his fist stroke for stroke.

Sherlock can’t take it any longer. He brings one hand up to tangle into the feather-light hairs at the back of John’s neck and twists around to kiss him, the craving for _more_ welling up inside of him as it threatens to spill over.

“Fuck. Bedroom. Now.” John pulls away and manhandles Sherlock none-too-gently to his feet, steering him down the hallway. 

Sherlock stumbles clumsily along, but they only make it about halfway down the hall before they’re tangled up with each other once more, John slamming him back against the wall and kicking his feet apart as their lips move to devour in a mesmerizing dance, the choreography familiar and elating at the same time. John’s frotting against him, and he can feel his cock leaking obscenely onto the front of John’s shirt.

There’s no real reason why they couldn’t stagger the last fifteen feet to the bedroom. There’s really not. But his hands are in John’s hair and his breath is hot and frantic and John’s hoisting his legs up around his waist, fingernails digging into the firm flesh of Sherlock’s thighs as John maneuvers him into place. 

Then John’s lining up his cock and driving _in_ and _up,_ taking care to push Sherlock _back_ against the wall as leverage instead of trying to hold him up via strength and sheer will (an endeavor which, after _many_ failed attempts, was deemed impossible). But this-- _fuck,_ this works just _fine,_ and before he knows it, Sherlock is being shagged senseless right up against the wall, screaming and moaning as he wraps his arms around John’s broad shoulders and holds on for dear life.

John swallows his cries, their teeth clashing together as they move in short, stilted bursts, John’s thrusts not deep enough to bring Sherlock to completion but more than enough to drive him to the brink of insanity. He has to break the kiss to wail out his pleasure as John pushes deeper up into him, and John grins like a maniac before biting the flesh of his pec with unprecedented gusto.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck…” Sherlock manages to let go of John’s right shoulder and reaches frantically for his own cock, which is currently bobbing between them, flushed red and fit to burst. He wraps his fingers around himself and begins to jerk, his palm a little rough and a little dry and _just_ the right side of painful. 

John’s eyes snap down to where Sherlock is pleasuring himself, taking in the scene playing out between them.

“God, mmm, yeah, that’s it, that’s it, gorgeous…. _Fuck,_ your cock is so pretty, love, so pretty…”

The thrill of those words zings straight down his spine to his groin, and his prick twitches in response.

“Mmm, yes, John, just for you…”

“Oh… nnngh, God, yeah, you gonna make that pretty cock come for me?”

“I… I.... _Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, fuck,_ if you want me to, John, if you want me to…”

“Yeah, yeah, I want you to. I want to see your pretty cock come all over while I rail this tight little arse--”

And well, Christ, _shit,_ that’s done it. Stars explode behind Sherlock’s eyes but he forces them to stay open, watching as he expells his release between them, most of it hitting his own chest and trickling down his fist, but some of it splashing onto the front of John’s shirt in time with his vigorous thrusts.

“Ooooohhh, yeah, that’s it! That’s it, oh _fuck,_ look how gorgeous that is, Sherlock, look how gorgeous your prick is, coming for me like that…”

Sherlock can’t do anything but hold on for dear life, squeezing his thighs around John’s waist and squeezing the last few droplets from his spent cock.

Things get blurry after that. John takes him to the bedroom and gets him into bed, and fucks him again and again. Sherlock loses track of his own orgasms after his third. Eventually there comes a point where his arousal no longer ebbs and flows in climaxes but instead plateaus into a singular, endless expanse of uninterrupted bliss. He registers John using his body, pleasuring his body, but he can’t really _process_ it anymore, he can only _feel_ it, feel _everything,_ and he just wants more and more and more and John gives and gives and gives. When John’s not inside him, his mouth is on him, kissing him, breathing with him, worshipping him, crying out in tandem with him as Sherlock loses himself over and over again. John’s hands are firm and demanding and Sherlock’s body goes soft and pliant and they join and join and join until there’s nothing left.

****************************

Sherlock knows it wasn’t really a Session because he wakes up the next morning in a disgusting crust of semen and sweat, the sheets stale and stinking of sex.

When they have a proper Session, cleaning is part of the aftercare; John insists upon it. He’d wipe Sherlock down with a flannel or wash him in the shower or deposit him in the bath, then change the sheets and air out the room and the next morning Sherlock would wake thinking perhaps the whole thing had been a dream.

But their post-case-sex-marathons are different than their Sessions. They have a tendency to fall asleep in a tangled pile of their own filth, exhausted by their exertions and completely, utterly spent. Mornings afterwards are considerably less idyllic and considerably more disgusting, both of them staggering about nursing intense post-sex-frenzy hangovers as they try and scrape all the fluids off of the various surfaces of the flat, not to mention their own skin (well, John takes care of most of the fluids in the flat. Sherlock is primarily responsible for his own skin). It’s considerably less… glamorous.

Which is probably why they don’t have sex like that very often anymore, Sherlock thinks to himself as he acclimates to his surroundings. Not only does he feel like he’s been hit by a lorry (every joint aches from his neck to his hips to his ankle bones, and every inch of his skin feels like it’s been chewed raw), but there’s something distinctly undignified about passing out in a feral heap at their age that even Sherlock is forced to admit feels borderline hedonistic. 

Groaning, he pulls himself into a sitting position. The bed is empty and cold. Odd; John usually would have a lie-in with him the morning after, unless he went out to pick up--

 _Breakfast._ No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than his nose picks up on the tempting aroma of coffee wafting down the hall, accompanied by a distinctly _doughy_ undertone. Espresso and pastries from Angelo’s? He sniffs again. No, it’s definitely coffee-- nothing fancy, but it’s the _good_ kind, strong and dark and just bitter enough. And the dough-- not sweet, a little savory, with just a hint of spice…

_Coffee and bagels._

Bloody perfect.

He once again commends himself on his excellent decision to marry John Watson.

He rises to his feet (doing his best to ignore the screaming pain in his over-flexed hips, the dull throbbing at the back of his head, and the searing ache in his arse) and staggers towards his dressing gown, only to stop dead in his tracks at the sound of voices echoing down the hall from the sitting room.

 _Shit._ Company at this hour? He freezes in place, one hand on his dressing gown, trapped in the terrible purgatory that is _social niceties._

Time was, he wouldn’t give a rat’s arse who was in the flat. He’d’ve thrown on his dressing gown, not bothering to hide his bruises or his come-crusted skin, and pranced down the hallway, given whoever it was a verbal dressing-down for disturbing them before noon, and then retreated to the kitchen to toast his bagel in peace.

But alas, years of John’s persistent reminders to be _thoughtful_ towards their guests, to be _gracious_ as a host, and to be _discrete_ about their sex life have really done a number on him, and he finds himself reluctantly shuffling off to the bathroom to have a rinse before proceeding into the common area.

Freshly washed and emerging back into the bedroom, he takes a moment to suss out the state of his skin in their full-length mirror. It’s a warzone of bruises and bite-marks, from the edge of his jawline all the way down his torso, across his shoulderblades, and (perhaps a bit surprisingly) smattered across his arse and down the backs of both his thighs. He presses gently against the deepest purple spots, delighting in the sensation of pleasant pain that flares to the surface. Delicious.

That said, it makes dressing a bit of an ordeal. He throws on a pair of silk pajama bottoms, then rummages through the wardrobe until he procures one of John’s old hoodies, which he knows will cover at least half of his neck. There are still obvious bruises and bite marks above the line of his collar, but he reasons he can’t very well put on a scarf for the purpose of going to the kitchen to eat breakfast, so it is what it is.

Concluding that there was little else he was willing to let stand between himself and fresh bagels, he throws open the bedroom door and strides purposefully into the kitchen.

Deliberately ignoring the infuriating specter of Mycroft perched in Sherlock’s chair in the sitting room, he goes directly to John, who’s facing the kitchen counter doing whatever it is John does when he’s flustered and trying to avoid having an actual conversation with Mycroft. He wraps his arms around John’s sturdy frame and presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Oh! Good morning, you.” John doesn’t seem at all thrown off by Sherlock’s blatant public display of affection. He turns around to grin up at him and give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Sleep well?”

Sherlock smiles mischievously. “Enough.”

“Glad to hear it. Your brother decided to grace us with his presence completely unannounced this morning. Unfortunately, I only got enough bagels for me and you.”

“I’m avoiding gluten again, you know,” Mycroft drawls from the sitting room.

John continues to ignore him, completely focused on Sherlock as if it’s just the two of them alone in the flat. “Want me to toast yours?”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes, please.” He plucks one of the to-go cups of coffee off the counter and lowers himself to sit at the kitchen table (doing his best not to wince and give too much away).

“And don’t bother offering me tea, I’ve already had some,” Mycroft continues, apparently talking to no one in particular.

Instead, Sherlock just watches starry-eyed as John dotes on him like Mycroft’s not even there. He toasts Sherlock’s bagel for him, slathers it with (what John considers to be) a criminal amount of cream cheese, and places it in front of him with a loving peck on the top of his head and a tender squeeze of his shoulders. Sherlock preens, delighted to show Mycroft just how _well_ John takes care of him.

He knows that there’s probably not much Mycroft can’t deduce about their activities the night before. After all, Sherlock’s neck isn’t the only one littered with love-bites; he notes that despite the fact John is wearing his highest-necked jumper, the evidence of Sherlock’s affections still peeks out the top. And they’re both moving a bit stiffly, clearly sore and dopamine-dazed. Sherlock feels infinitely smug about it.

John sighs and lowers himself into the chair across from Sherlock’s, digging into his own bagel with a satisfied expression as he picks up the newspaper.

“May I interrupt this picturesque scene of domestic bliss?” Mycroft’s tone is growing sharper, and Sherlock secretly delights in the fact that he seems _deeply_ troubled by being ignored. He makes a mental note of this fact to use as ammunition in the future.

“I told you before, Mycroft, we’ve got nothing to say to you,” John quips around a mouthful of bagel.

“Then you’re free to sit and simply _listen,_ Dr. Watson, but you should know I don’t take kindly to being denied the opportunity to say my piece.”

“That’s a _mild_ understatement,” Sherlock mutters through the stickiness of his cream cheese.

Mycroft remains undeterred. “You ought to know that you’ve made life infinitely more difficult for yourselves from this point onward. For years now, the invisible hand of the British government has generously offered you protection, and in return, you’ve rounded and bitten it like a pair of feral dogs.” John and Sherlock share a glance across the kitchen table, and snicker at the unintentional innuendo.

“ENOUGH.” Suddenly, Mycroft’s on his feet, pounding his umbrella against the floor in a most uncharacteristic display of emotion; both Sherlock and John startle upright to stare at him. _“Have you any idea what you’ve done?_ How intricate a web you’ve unravelled? How delicately balanced the scale was that you’ve so carelessly upended?”

John waves the front page of the newspaper casually in his direction, the headline screaming of widespread TREASON and a party in DISARRAY. “Seems pretty important, yeah, we’ve been getting that drift for a while now.”

“You have NO CLUE what you’re up against,” Mycroft snarls, teeth bared in blatant disgust and frustration. “All these years, I have done my best by the two of you. Put up with your ill-advised shenanigans, your flagrant disregard for the law, your flippant attitude towards our national security. I have _done my best_ to shield you from the repercussions of your careless actions, but now, _this treason--”_

“She was _killing people,_ Mycroft.” Sherlock’s head whips around to see John’s face gone cold as steel. A shiver runs up his spine; he forgets just how seriously John takes accusations of _treason._ “Justify it however you will, but innocent people died over _money._ And sure, maybe some of Natasha’s operations were carried out on behalf of well-meaning government officials for the benefit of national security, but not Craneworthy. Craneworthy was a corruption case. It was about _money,_ and it was about greedy people securing _power._ So you can sod right off with your self-righteous claims and moral indignation. Fifteen people _died_ because Margery Whycombe and her husband embezzled money from _police widows._ So don’t you _dare_ fucking tell me that _protecting people like her_ is an act of _patriotism.”_

Mycroft levels his gaze. “You know this was bigger than Craneworthy.”

John shrugs. “‘Course it was. It always is. It’s never black or white, there are shades of grey, _don’t you think we get that?_ But surely even _you_ recognise that somewhere along the line, GreySphere’s role in all of this became greater than the sum of its parts. And we won’t just look the other way because of what’s _convenient_ for you.”

“I think you’ll find that my _convenience_ has little to do with all of this, Dr. Watson. Natasha was never _convenient_ for me. But she was an ally. An asset. And now we have to rebuild from the ground up, and I think you’ll find that this time, your little hovel here will be well outside the fortress’s walls.”

John gives him a sinister smile. “We’re just fine defending the perimeter ourselves, thanks.”

“And what about those whose lives you put in danger in the process?”

Sherlock feels a lump form in his throat. “Irene?”

Mycroft shrugs casually.

Sherlock swallows. “Is she… is she alive?”

“Honestly, brother mine, I haven’t the slightest. See, this is what happens when you try and take care of these things through _official_ channels; the information gets diluted and bogged down in endless bureaucracy. She’s a ward of MI5, now. They’ll set her up with one of their own Witness Protection Schemes. She’s out of my hands. If you ask me, you won’t be hearing from her again. Consider it your first loss in this _exciting_ new game you’re playing.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and marches out the door slamming it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never too proud to beg for comments.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, FINE. I guess after waiting through 11 chapters and four months, you deserve 40+ pages of BDSM porn. HERE.

Over the course of the next three weeks, life returns to normal-- at least, as normal as it ever was, by their standards.

Sherlock takes on some freelance lab work. John reports for duty at the surgery. Rosie enchants and frustrates them both in equal measure. Mrs. H remains as nosy and infuriatingly helpful as always. In sum, there’s nothing out of the ordinary to report.

They do go out for drinks with Aaron. Sherlock chooses the venue: an upscale cocktail lounge in Mayfair, which he’s come to think of as a sort of neutral territory between Baker Street and Aaron’s place in Vauxhall. It’s trendy enough that Aaron enjoys it, yet it’s not in an explicitly “gay” part of town where John feels out of place. From what he can tell, everyone has a good time; John and Aaron seem content to take a break from being constantly at each other’s throats, something about having endured a life-or-death situation together apparently having glossed over the more contentious edges of their relationship. Sherlock is pleased to see that Aaron is more gracious towards John, the undercurrent of hostility normally present in their interactions receding almost into non-existence. And while Sherlock can’t keep himself on the straight-and-narrow the _whole_ evening, he manages to keep his flirting with Aaron to a bare minimum (despite secretly hoping that John will want to punish him when they get home regardless).

But John doesn’t punish him. They do have sex that night, but it’s the nice vanilla kind, and John doesn’t say a single word about Aaron or Sherlock’s behaviour towards him the entire time Sherlock is riding him to a perfectly satisfying completion.

It’s… a little disappointing.

As the days drag on, Sherlock finds himself becoming increasingly agitated. In the moment, he hadn’t minded the fact that they didn’t Unwind after the conclusion of the Craneworthy case, but that was because he’d thought for certain John would be eager to make it up for him at the next opportune moment. Yet John seems to have forgotten about this obvious debt altogether.

Sherlock tries to goad him on a bit. He takes _extra_ time putting on his belt in the mornings, running it deliberately through his fingers several times before threading it through his beltloops, hoping perhaps it will inspire John to want to wrap it around his _wrists,_ instead. He sucks absentmindedly on John’s dog tags in the evenings when he comes upstairs from his lab to compile his data for the day, anticipating that perhaps John will look up from where he’s reading the paper and decide he wants to put something _else_ in Sherlock’s mouth, instead. He even wears his Purple Shirt Of Sex on a completely ordinary Thursday as he suffers from a _very_ uncharacteristic bout of clumsiness, which necessitates that he bend over to retrieve the multitude of objects he’s so carelessly dropping as John looks on, unmoved.

Eventually he grows desperate. He makes dinner plans with Aaron and comes home an hour and a half later than he said he would, making an intentionally vague and flimsy excuse that normally would send John into a possessive frenzy. But John doesn’t take the bait.

Finally, 24 days after the conclusion of the Craneworthy case, Sherlock marches into the kitchen on a quiet Friday afternoon to find John seated at the table, deep in concentration as he compiles the grocery list for the week. With all the confidence he can muster, Sherlock strides up to him, looks him straight in the eye, and slaps down a tangled pile of leather straps smack in the centre of the table.

John looks at it and blinks. “What’s this?”

“Collar. Leash. Cuffs. Gag. Thought that was fairly obvious.”

John raises an eyebrow. “And you’re bringing them into the kitchen because…”

“I need a Session.”

“Oh!” John looks sincerely surprised and a bit taken aback. “I… um, okay, we can definitely arrange that. But I thought you didn’t really care for…” he gestures vaguely towards the pile of items on the table, “um, all this.”

“Usually I don’t. But I know _you_ do.”

John looks skeptical. “I mean, I said I liked them the one time we used them, Sherlock, but you’re the one who’s asking for the session. We don’t need to bring any of this into it if it’s not what you’re looking for.”

“Do you think I’d be giving you these if it wasn’t what I was looking for?”

Now John looks downright concerned. “Alright, sit down. We clearly need to talk.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock pulls out a chair and joins him at the table, folding his hands in front of him in a mockery of an over-eager schoolboy. “Yes, John?”

“Mind telling me what’s actually going on here? You want a session, that’s fine, you know you just have to ask for one. You don’t need to come waltzing into the kitchen with a full array of bondage gear to get my attention.”

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes; was John really so obtuse he couldn’t _see_ that Sherlock had been angling for a session for _weeks?_ But he knows when they’re having their Talks that snark doesn’t get him anywhere, so he exercises restraint. “I want a session and I want you to use these on me. I’ve been thinking about it since that night at Splay. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you have, too.”

John lets out a sigh like a deflating balloon, then shrugs his shoulders as if accepting defeat. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I have been thinking about it. A lot.”

Sherlock hesitates. “So… why haven’t you?”

John looks him squarely in the eye, an expression of open honesty on his face. “Because I was angry.”

“... Angry? At… at me?”

John shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, not at you, Sherlock. You didn’t do anything wrong. But remember a long time ago, when we were negotiating about how to use my possessive streak to our advantage, without breaking any of our safety rules?”

“...Yes?”

“A huge part of that is not having power exchanges when I’m actually _angry._ Manufactured jealousy is fine, but _angry_ jealousy is dangerous. And that case, Sherlock… it stirred up a lot.”

Sherlock pauses to contemplate this. “I understand. Everything with Irene--”

“It wasn’t just Irene. There was Javier, too, not to mention Aaron…”

 _Javier._ Jesus, Sherlock had completely forgotten about that; he’d been so deep in Case Mode that the whole situation had rather ceased to register with him. The memory resurfaces like a slap in the face: Kissing Javier passionately as he ran his finger through John’s hair to make him watch, the hunger in Javier’s lips and searing heat in John’s eyes...

“The point is, I was really struggling with my jealousy during the case. And when it concluded, I just…” John swallows. “I wanted to _hurt_ you. Not-- not _violent_ -hurt you, you know that, but I wanted to _dominate_ you so forcefully that it would purge me of my jealousy. I wanted to _break_ you.”

Sherlock pauses. “I’d’ve let you. If that’s what you needed.”

John nods. “I know. That’s why we didn’t Unwind the night we wrapped the case. I didn’t trust myself not to get carried away and take it too far. I didn’t trust myself not to let my emotions cloud my judgement. I had to keep us safe. For each other.”

Sherlock takes a moment to mull this over. Suddenly, everything is making a lot more sense.

He’s finally able to collect his thoughts. “So… how do you feel now?”

John smiles warmly. “I’ve been feeling better the past few days. Hanging out with Aaron as a couple helped, and I honestly think the two of you going out alone the other night was good as well. It reminded me that I trust you. Implicitly. Without question.”

Sherlock returns his smile. “Good. I can assure you your trust is not misplaced.”

“Good. So that being said, I think I’d be up for a Session this weekend. If you’re amenable.”

Sherlock’s heart flutters in anticipation. “Yes. Yes, please, John.”

“Alright, then. Can you make arrangements for Rosie? I’ve got to finish this list before the Tesco closes.”

And just like that, the heady sensuality building between them is broken into the familiar fragments of domestic stability. Sherlock finds that he doesn’t mind at all, knowing that his patience would be rewarded handsomely.

***************

_Be careful what you wish for._

It’s a common enough mantra that Sherlock’s not unfamiliar with it, he just hasn’t found many occasions in his life to reflect upon it. He’s not much of a _wishing_ sort of man. He _wants,_ or _needs,_ or _ignores,_ or _acts. Wishing_ gets one nowhere.

Except when it came to John Watson. Because Sherlock would find himself _wishing_ silently that John would _push_ him, and then, like some omniscient telepath, John would take things _one step further,_ edge up against Sherlock’s boundaries _just a little closer,_ and then he’d _press_ and _press_ and _press_ until Sherlock’s whole being expanded to encompass all of John Watson’s myriad of desires. With John, Sherlock never ceased to amaze even himself.

Tonight is no exception. John had taken him down to the laboratory in 221C, which is how Sherlock knew he was in for a _real_ treat. Then he’d made Sherlock strip and kneel in front of the full-length mirror while he affixed the collar, cuffs, and gag to Sherlock’s trembling form, tightening them until they were _just_ on the edge of uncomfortable. Then he’d made Sherlock hold still while he jerked himself off onto Sherlock’s face and chest, marking him for the duration of the Session.

Once he’d finished, John fetched six long lengths of jute rope from the cabinet in the corner, hoisted two of them over the suspension hook in the ceiling, and got down to the business of tying Sherlock up into the most intricate _Shibari_ bind Sherlock can recall him attempting to date. By the time John was done with his masterpiece, Sherlock was completely immobilised, his arms stretched overhead, back arched, chest and torso crisscrossed with hypnotic patterns of deep crimson jute. Then John had proceeded to weave additional knots from his hips down to his knees, pausing every so often to make sure that each knot was resting on the proper pressure point. Sherlock trembled and moaned through it all, biting down into his gag as his cock throbbed and leaked. He could still stand, but barely, nearly raised onto his tiptoes as his body swayed and surrendered.

Finally satisfied, John had stood and retreated to the chair by the fireplace to do a Sudoku puzzle while Sherlock stared transfixed at his own reflection in the full-length mirror, marveling at how gorgeous his Transport looked when John trussed him up like a feast fit for consumption.

But now a good twenty minutes had passed (or maybe thirty? Or sixty? Sherlock admittedly does not have an excellent grasp of time when he’s in the process of submitting to John), and John hadn’t so much as flicked a glance up at him to see how he was getting on. And he looks so _good,_ Sherlock thinks, tied up and helpless, gnashing against the gag in his mouth, the black leather of the collar around his neck proclaiming his belonging to the man currently doing brain teasers in front of the fire like he didn’t give two shits about the fact that he had the world’s most brilliant detective wholly compromised and _completely at his mercy._

It was _infuriating._

Sherlock lets out a frustrated huff around the leather of the gag. John looks up from his puzzle.

“Alright over there, sweetheart?”

Sherlock issues a whine of dissent.

John purses his lips and rises to his feet. Sherlock’s blood _sings_ in anticipation as John approaches him.

“Let’s see here.” He reaches up to take Sherlock’s bound hands in his own and gives them a firm squeeze, which Sherlock readily returns. He dips his fingers between Sherlock’s throat and the leather of his collar, making sure Sherlock’s airflow isn’t restricted. He checks the knots on the bindings, ensuring that they’re resting on the appropriate pressure points. He rests his palm on the tops of Sherlock’s feet, confirming that his blood flow is unimpeded.

“Well.” John rises back to his full height and gives Sherlock a skeptical once-over. “You seem fine physically. So I guess you’ll have to _tell_ me what the problem is.” He reaches behind Sherlock’s head and unfastens the gag. Sherlock lets it fall from between his lips with a relieved gasp.

“Go on, then.” John looks devastatingly stern.

Sherlock feels tongue-tied as he struggles to formulate a coherent thought. “I need… I need you. To pay attention to me.”

John issues an exasperated huff and turns to make his way over to the coffee table, picking up the glass of water he’d prepared and holding it to Sherlock’s lips. “You sound parched. Drink. Three sips.”

Sherlock complies. His cock twitches obscenely.

“Now.” John takes the glass away and then turns back to Sherlock, his gaze cold and level. “You say you _need_ my attention. What are you willing to give me in exchange?”

“Anything.” Sherlock’s voice sounds low and foreign in his own ears.

“Anything?”

“Yes, John, anything. You can do anything you want to me. I just need you. _Please.”_

John’s expression remains neutral, but there’s a growing heat in his eyes that’s unmistakable. Uttering those words is dizzyingly arousing to Sherlock as well: The mere admission that he’s willing to let John do _anything_ to him makes his cheeks burn and his breath quicken. His own desperation feels overwhelming.

“So you’ll let me do anything I want to you?” John reaches up and takes Sherlock’s nipples in between his fingers and thumbs and _twists, hard._ It’s the first time John’s really _touched_ him tonight except to tie him up, and the stimulation is so intense for a moment Sherlock nearly loses control.

But he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax, comply, _submit._ He’s going to be _good_ for John tonight.

“Yes. Anything.”

“Hmm. Good.” John strides over to pick up one of the chairs beside the fireplace, and carries it over and places it behind Sherlock’s strung-up form. Next, he steps forward to pick up the two dangling ends of the jute ropes he’s used to tie the knots that run from Sherlock’s pelvis down his thighs to his knees. “So listen up, sweetheart. I’m going to suspend you for a bit. You remember our rules for suspension?”

“Yes.”

“Go on, then.”

Sherlock recites them by heart. “I need to tell you if I experience any pain, numbness, or tingling. I need to tell you if my breathing feels restricted. If I can’t speak, I’ll snap my fingers twice. We can always take a break and then continue if I need a rest.”

“Good. Hold still.” With that, John takes the end of one rope, tosses it up and over the suspension hook in the ceiling, and gives it a firm tug, pulling Sherlock’s left leg up off the ground and towards his chest.

Sherlock stumbles and sways in surprise, leaning heavily into his bindings, feeling the firm bite of his rope harness supporting him. He moans.

“Good. Other one, now.” John repeats the process with the rope from his other leg, and Sherlock suddenly finds himself completely suspended, immobilized and helpless, legs spread obscenely as he dangles in mid-air. He hazards a glance at himself in the full-length mirror, and flushes with mortification at how perfectly _vulgar_ he looks with his cock bobbing and twitching between his lewdly-spread thighs.

John’s peering at him over his shoulder as well, taking in Sherlock’s reflection and the look of aroused shame on his face.

“Oh, that’s very nice.” John gives his body a little push, and Sherlock swings precariously, the ropes making a gentle creaking noise with the weight of him. “Now let me check and see what I have to work with, here.” John comes to stand resolutely behind him and reaches his arm across to pull Sherlock firmly against his body to stabilize him. His other hand is suddenly between Sherlock’s spread cheeks, fingers meandering lazily in search of their target.

He finds it with ease, and proceeds to stroke the furled opening with the dry pads of his fingers, teasing at him without penetrating him. Sherlock moans.

“Does that feel good, love? Do you like me touching you here?”

Sherlock gives a watery nod.

John smiles at him warmly in their reflection in the mirror as he traces lazy circles around Sherlock’s hole. “I like touching you here, too. So nice and tight. Can I check and see how tight you are tonight, love?”

Sherlock nods again.

John pushes one finger inside him, barely an inch in, and has a feel around, as if inspecting him for quality. The thought makes Sherlock ache with _eagerness._

“Hmm.” John withdraws his finger and then pushes it inside again, twisting it a bit, stretching Sherlock ever so slightly. His finger is dry and the penetration burns. It feels perfect.

“Do… do you like it?” Sherlock asks. He can’t stop himself. He has to know if John likes what he’s feeling.

John makes a non-committal sound. “You feel very tight indeed, which you know I like. You keep this nice virgin arse so ready for me, don’t you?”

“God, yes…”

“But the thing is, I don’t just want it tight, I want it clean, don’t I?”

“Yes, John.”

“Did you clean yourself up, just like I asked you?”

Sherlock flashes back to the shower he took before they started their session, to the fastidious preparations he’d undertaken to make sure his body would be _exactly_ the way John wanted it.

“Yes. John.”

John presses a soft kiss to the crook of his neck, and Sherlock shivers as he forces his finger further inside him. “I think I’d better check. Just to be sure.” And with that, he kisses his way slowly down Sherlock’s spine, over his tailbone, between his cheeks, before licking gently around the place where his finger is buried inside Sherlock’s heat.

“Oh. Oh, fuck.” The sensation takes Sherlock by surprise. He feels so _open,_ suspended like this, his legs forced wide apart by the strength of his bindings.

“Mmm. I think I’d better take a pass at you myself, love.” And with that, John withdraws his finger, lowers himself into the chair, and buries his face between Sherlock’s cheeks before planting an obscene kiss against his opening.

Sherlock wails, taking full advantage of the soundproofing John installed in the lab. It was really most thoughtful of him.

John’s hands fly to Sherlock’s hips to hold him steady as he deepens the kiss, flicking his tongue in and out of Sherlock’s fluttering hole as he struggles to adjust to the sensation.

John pulls back. “Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to eat you out until you come untouched. No, no protests, you can do it, I know you can. No complaining. Now, we’re on the clock because I can’t leave you suspended for too long, so you better concentrate on giving me what I want. Clear?”

Sherlock’s head lolls to the side as the overwhelming reality of what John is asking him to do washes over him. “Yes, Captain.”

“Good.” And with that, John pries Sherlock’s cheeks ever further apart, leans forward, and gets to work.

It’s an odd angle to watch the proceedings from, Sherlock thinks to himself as he stares into the full-length mirror. He’s able to get a clear view of himself, dangling from the ceiling like a fly trapped in a web, with no hope of escape. His arms are straining and his chest is heaving, and his erect cock and tight balls look unspeakably lewd framed by John’s immaculate ropework.

He can see John’s body, too, seated in the chair behind him, leaning forward to feast on his body. But he can’t see his face, because it’s buried _there,_ in that most private, intimate part of him. He moans and squirms on John’s tongue, and he can feel John chuckle against his quickly-dampening skin.

 _Could_ he come just from being rimmed? He never has before. John certainly enjoys testing the limits of Sherlock’s prodigious ability to come without having his cock touched; he delighted in making him come via prostate orgasm alone, or just by torturing his nipples (which were notoriously sensitive).

But this? John had only really gotten into rimming more recently, and as much as it turns Sherlock on, he’s not sure he can _come_ from it. It feels _incredible_ and he enjoys it every time John endeavours to pleasure him like this, but would it be enough to get him over the edge?

It would have to be. It would _have_ to, because John wants Sherlock to come just from his mouth on him, and they only had so much time; John was incredibly strict about time-limits when it came to suspension, so Sherlock knows he’s up against the clock.

He forces himself to _relax_ and _concentrate._ While those concepts may seem oximoronical, to Sherlock they make perfect sense in moments like these. He pushes out the thoughts of anything that is not John Watson and what John Watson is currently doing to him, and narrows onto that with laser focus, the world reducing to the point where they meet skin-on-skin.

John is licking him, kissing him, teasing him inside and out, while Sherlock is suspended and _completely at his mercy._ Sherlock doesn’t have the luxury of shyness or privacy or self-consciousness; John has strung him up and spread him out and is feasting on his body like a beggar at a banquet. Sherlock couldn’t close his legs if he wanted to. Couldn’t pull away. He’s _trapped,_ caught this insane fantasy brought to life that John is creating just for them.

John’s hands move from his cheeks to the ropes looped around his hips, threading through them to hold Sherlock’s swaying form steady. He doubles down on his ministrations, licking deep inside him, swirling his tongue before pulling out and lapping hungrily at his entrance before plunging back inside with renewed gusto.

“Oh God. Oh GOD, John, John, oh my God…”

John laughs and pulls away for a moment, face peering around to catch Sherlock’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “Go ahead and scream, love. No one is going to hear you. It’s just you and me.” And with that, he leans in and begins to forcefully fuck Sherlock back onto his tongue.

Sherlock screams. He cries and he wails and he kicks and thrashes, but none of it is any use; his Transport is completely immobilized, and John Watson is hellbent on having his way with his arse.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s spine snaps into an arch, his pelvis tilts forward, his hands flex and grab for the rope, holding on for dear life. His head drops back and his cock throbs. He knows what’s about to happen a mere millisecond before it hits.

He comes.

John moans luxuriously and tongue-fucks him through it, hands meandering to the globes of his arse to knead them and pull them even further apart, opening his hole so wide that Sherlock can _feel_ the spit-slick evidence of John’s attention leaking from himself.

He turns his head to the side and sinks his teeth into his own bicep, hoping to steady himself. Coming while suspended makes him feel utterly unmoored, and he’s desperate for something-- _anything--_ to keep his hard drive from going offline altogether. His cock twitches and he can feel a few more weak pulses of come erupt from its tip, splattering onto the concrete floor beneath him.

Sherlock dimly registers John rising to his feet to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s swaying form, pulling him close to his chest, pressing kisses against his neck and murmuring soft words of praise into his ear. Sherlock can feel his body respond instantly, his coiled muscles relaxing, sinking into the soothing tones of John’s affirmations.

“That was good, sweetheart, so good. I’m so proud of you. You’re amazing, brilliant, you’re _perfect.”_ John runs his hands reassuringly up and down Sherlock’s sides, gentling him as he comes down from his high. “You with me, love?”

Sherlock forces his brain to react. It’s a lot more difficult than it should be. “Yes, John.”

“Excellent.” John releases him and strides purposefully across the room to the cabinet in the corner. Sherlock can feel his pulse elevate instantaneously, breath quickening in anticipation of what precisely John planned to do to him next. “Ah! Here we go.” John turns around and holds up Sherlock’s ribbed vibrating plug. “You want this?”

Sherlock moans at the thought. He loved the vibrating plug, it was probably his favourite toy in their arsenal, but he feels strangely wrung-out from his recent orgasm, and the thought of putting pressure against his prostate at the moment feels ill-advised.

But at the same time, he doesn’t want to disappoint John. If John wants to put the plug in him, wants to stretch him out until he feels open and used, well, that’s John’s prerogative. Sherlock doesn’t want any say in the matter whatsoever.

“If you want it, John.”

John smiles amicably. “I _do_ want it, love. You look so lovely with this inside you, getting ready to take me. Doesn’t that sound good?”

Sherlock capitulates reluctantly. “Yes, John.”

“Excellent.” John snatches up the lube from the cabinet and returns to stand behind Sherlock, making eye contact with him in the mirror as he slicks up the plug, chatting away as though it were tea time and that Sherlock was not, in fact, dangling from the ceiling with his thighs pulled up nearly to his chest, still somehow swaying with the residual motion of his release. “Let’s see. We’ll just get this nice and wet so that you’ll be plenty messy by the time I’m inside you, hmm?” He takes two lube-slicked digits and reaches down to prod Sherlock’s hole with an air of polite disinterest. “Oh, yes, that will be very nice indeed, I think. You’re so open already, I think this will do _just_ the trick.”

Sherlock flinches despite himself, and he’d have to be blind not to see the symbiotic flare of _desire_ that flashes in John’s eyes when he sees Sherlock express his discomfort. It was true that Sherlock _loved_ painful sex; he’d always been perfectly upfront about that. Furthermore, John _loved_ inflicting pain during sex, but as lucky a turn-up as that was, it had taken John a lot longer to make his peace with it. But slowly, steadily, John was learning to express his enjoyment of Sherlock’s pain-turned-pleasure.

“Mmm. Little sensitive?” He teases his fingers in and out, feeling around Sherlock’s rim.

“Y-y-yes, John. I’m fine. It’s fine.”

John licks his lips, eyes locked with Sherlock’s in the reflection of the mirror. He adds another finger. The stretch burns, and Sherlock gasps and strains against his bindings. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m fine, it’s all fine, you can put it in me, please.”

John looks perfectly aloof. “Well, alright. If you really think you can take it.”

“I can, I can, I promise. I’ll be good. I’ll take it for you, I’ll take it so well for you, please…” He’s babbling, he knows it, but the thought that _John_ wants to put the plug inside him has made _him_ want the plug inside him so badly he nearly aches from it.

“Very well.” John lowers himself back into the chair behind him, and Sherlock internally reels from the disappointment of not being able to see John’s face.

He doesn’t have very long to reflect on it, though. The next thing he knows, the pointed tip of the plug is breaching him, and he throws back his head and groans, deep and guttural, as John pushes it in and his body stretches to accommodate the flare.

However, John doesn’t seat it fully. He stops after perhaps an inch, then pulls it back out again, making a pleased little humming sound.

“John. John, please. _Please._ I’m begging. I’m begging twice. I want it, I need it, God--”

“Hush, now.” John’s tone is curt, and he gives Sherlock’s left arsecheek an irritated little slap. “I’m enjoying myself back here. I want to take my time and watch as you take it, little by little. Don’t rush me, understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

And _Christ,_ does John take his time. He works the plug in millimetre by millimetre, so that each flared rib catches Sherlock’s rim as his body swallows up the intrusion, then withdrawing it almost completely and starting all over again. It’s maddening.

“Oh, yes, look at that. Look how hungry your hole is, all for me, hmm?”

“J-J-John--” Sherlock tries to respond, but just then John maneuvers the plug in just a half an inch deeper, and the bright burst of pain that accompanies it derails his thoughts entirely. _“Nnnnngahhh.”_

“Mmmm, yes, _take it,_ just like that--” John pistons the plug in and out, increasing the sensation of friction and bringing a widening shimmer of heat up to Sherlock’s belly from his pelvic floor. “Good, good, now take a little more for me, mmmm, yeah, _yeah, oh God, yes, come on Sherlock, take it, take it--”_ He’s properly fucking Sherlock with the plug now, yanking it out almost completely before plunging it back in with a devilish twist of his wrist, making Sherlock feel like he’s being tangled up from the inside out.

He screams and shouts, but John is relentless, using his free hand to grab Sherlock’s suspended body by the knot at the base of his spine, holding him steady as he impales him over and over.

For a split second, Sherlock thinks he might pass out. The sensation is so overwhelming and his surrender so complete, he feels utterly consumed by it, and white spots cloud the edges of his vision.

Just as he considers snapping and asking John to check his blood flow, he feels the base of the plug come to sit flush against his hole, and John’s hands disappear. With a relieved sigh, Sherlock sags against his bindings.

“There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” John still sounds infuriatingly relaxed, all calm, confident stoicism. Sherlock just whimpers in response, his channel clamping and relaxing around the intrusion. He swears quietly under his breath, and he can feel a trickle of sweat make its way from his hairline down to his jawbone before dripping onto the quivering flesh of his pec. _Christ,_ John was making him _work_ tonight.

It’s glorious.

“Now. We’re at our time limit for these bindings, so let’s get you down, nice and easy, yeah?” Sherlock musters a delirious nod, and John re-emerges from behind him and begins to untie his bindings in slow, careful, precise motions.

John lowers his left leg first so that Sherlock can begin to support himself. He nearly cries with relief when his toes touch solid ground; he’d felt so completely _vulnerable_ and _exposed,_ swinging to and fro like some inanimate plaything.

His right leg follows, then John releases the binding of his arms, freeing him from the hook on the ceiling. His legs give out immediately, unprepared to support him, but luckily John had anticipated that and catches him, lovingly guiding him to lie on the carpet in front of the fireplace with his head resting on a throw pillow while John works on removing the rest of his bindings, speaking words of praise and encouragement. Sherlock closes his eyes, breathes, and lets the sound wash over him. He needed to reserve his energy for whatever John had planned next.

John massages all of his limbs after the bindings are gone, checking his blood flow, stretching his joints, bringing his body back to earth. Sherlock nearly melts into the rug he feels so good, letting his eyes flutter shut as John works him over.

Eventually John moves to stand but doesn’t summon Sherlock, so Sherlock stays put, supine and serene, basking in the glowing warmth of the fire. He can hear John settle back into his chair, followed by the sound of pencil against paper; back at the Sudoku, apparently. 

Sherlock is glad for the break. It used to be that if they paused during a session, he’d get so over-eager to find out what was next, so _desperate_ to try and deduce John’s next move, that he’d feel agitated and near breathless with anticipation. But he’s long since learned that if John is giving him a rest, it means that John _knows_ he needs a rest. Not only that, it means John’s going to push him even _harder_ when the break is over, so he’d best take advantage while he could.

So he takes deep, cleansing breaths, feeling his ribcage expand and contract in a soothing oscillation, the rush of oxygen to his cells, the fresh wash of dopamine and oxytocin coursing through his veins. He sinks into the moment and revels in this opportunity to just _be._

To be here, naked and spent in the wake of a magnificent orgasm, spread out on the floor at John Watson’s feet like a sacrifice to some all-powerful deity. To be covered in the salt-slick stain of his own sweat, masterfully extracted from him by John’s sturdy hands, guiding his transport patiently towards their mutual ecstasy. To have John’s come on his face, his throat, his chest, his hair, marking him, debauching him, making him unfit for any company beside the present. To be defenseless, unprotected, vulnerable and exposed, but so filled with unconditional _trust_ that his own subjugation transforms into an intoxicating thrill, and he’s drunk off his head on it, on this _surrender,_ this heavenly _release._ It’s so simple, to be here. To be like this. With John.

He floats.

“Sweetheart? You with me?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open immediately. As dozy and distant as he’d been a mere moment ago, it suddenly feels as if his body is buzzing with energy, bottled up and begging for release.

“Yes, John.” He cranes his neck to peer back at him, to see John’s grin upside-down still stunning as ever.

“Why, hello there.”

Sherlock offers an upside-down smile of his own. “Hi.”

“You’re being awfully good for me tonight, aren’t you?”

Sherlock feels a bit smug at the thought. Now that John mentions it, he _is_ being very good, indeed! He’d even come just from rimming, exactly like John had asked; a rather impressive accomplishment, if he did say so himself. “Yes, John. _Very_ good.”

“Quite so. Would you like a little reward?”

 _Mmmm, a reward?_ Already? _Splendid._ “Yes, please.”

“As you wish. I want you to sit up and crawl over here to me.”

Sherlock sits bolt upright on autopilot and immediately regrets it; not only is he hit with a dizzying head-rush, but he’d completely forgotten about the large plug currently wedged inside of him. The sudden change in position rocks it to a completely new angle, stretching his passage obscenely as he feels his stomach drop. “Oh! Nnngh, oh…” He rolls onto all-fours and sways a bit, trying to get his head on straight and the damn _pressure_ off his insides.

“Easy there, love, it’s not a race. Nice and slow. No rush, shh, come here…”

He steadies himself, shakes his head to clear the stupor, and then blinks up at John with newfound determination.

“There we go, that’s it, nice and steady.” John extends his hand and Sherlock eagerly crawls towards it until John’s fingers are curling into his hair, rewarding him for his obedience. “Beautiful, gorgeous, so lovely, _mmm._ ” His fingers caress Sherlock’s scalp, his cheek, his jaw... “Do you want a little spanking, sweetheart? For being so good?”

“God, yes--” He doesn’t even pause to contemplate the offer before he’s clambering across John’s lap. John laughs and helps Sherlock arrange his limbs, draping his torso across John’s toned highs, bracing his palms on the ground, arching his back to expose his arse. He supposes ordinarily John wouldn’t be amused by Sherlock’s forwardness, but he _had_ offered him a reward, and Sherlock is all too eager to claim it, lest John change his mind.

“Alright, love, very nice. You remember our big rule for spanking?”

“Yes. _‘Enthusiastic verbal consent throughout.’”_

“That’s the one.” And without a single iota of hesitation, John raises his left hand and swings it swiftly down to connect firmly with Sherlock’s buttock.

The contact makes a most delicious _smack_ , loud enough that it echoes even in the sound-proof room. The sensation reverberates straight to his core as the plug shifts and bumps up against his prostate, and his cock leaps to life. “AUGH! Yes, _yes…”_

John takes five more swings in quick succession, alternating between Sherlock’s cheeks with firm, perfectly-placed slaps. The plug drills into him in agonizing punctuations that seem to push all the air straight out of his lungs.

He heaves in a ragged breath. “Yes, John, yes, more, _more…”_

Above him, John utters a pleased hum, then threads the fingers of his right hand into the back of Sherlock’s collar between where the leather meets his flesh. The collar isn’t so tight that this cuts off his air flow, but it’s enough to _press_ just every so slightly against the front of his throat, reminding Sherlock that John could strangle him at any moment, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. John could kill him right now if he wanted. (Sherlock would let him.) (He’d never tell him that.)

John resumes the spanking, raining down a series of near-brutal blows, each one perfectly aimed to jostle the plug in the precise way John knows Sherlock likes it. Sherlock squirms and wails, and John gives his collar a little yank. 

“JOHN, YES.” His voice has gone husky and gruff, but he remembers their rule: he must give _continuous consent._ He stops, the spanking stops. And he absolutely does _not_ want it to stop.

Sherlock can feel his own sweat pooling in the divot of his spine as he endures John’s assault, feel the beads of moisture trickling from his hairline down his cheekbones, feel the tears pricking the corners of his eyes. John jerks his collar up ever further, forcing Sherlock’s back into an even more exaggerated arch, and he groans as he imagines what he must look like. He feels like a prize showdog, up on a pedestal for the whole world to see, to see how _good_ he is, how _good_ he can be for John. The muscles of his abdomen quiver with the effort of holding the position, of _presenting_ his arse for John to abuse, his neck craning against the relentless leather of his collar. He’s being so good, so _fucking_ good…

“AH! AH! Auuuuugh, oh, John, fuck, yes, _yes, nnngh! There! Oh-- oh, oh, God, yes…”_

His erection forces its way prominently to the forefront of his consciousness. He can feel himself engorged and throbbing, swinging heavily between his own thighs with every slap of John’s hand. He adjusts the angle of his hips just a bit so that his cock brushes up against John’s calf. It feels good.

Oh, Christ. It feels so _fucking good._

Overcome with desire, he doubles down and begins to hump John’s leg frantically, knuckles whitening as he seeks purchase against the floor. So much for being a _good_ showdog; seems he was more apt to mount the judge’s leg than win Best In Show. He almost snickers at the insane metaphor his delirious brain is weaving, but then John picks up the pace and Sherlock begins to rock against his leg with frenzied enthusiasm. Was John really going to let Sherlock soil his trousers like a naughty animal? It seems unlikely, yet--

“Stop. Sit up. Hands behind your back.”

“NGAH!” With a super-human level of restraint, Sherlock somehow manages to shove sharply down against the floor and rock back onto his heels, forfeiting any contact with John’s body in the span of a split second. For a moment he sways, heart pounding, cock twitching, his arse completely numb and just starting to truly _burn._ He whines through gritted teeth as he steadies himself, forcing his hands to clasp behind his back obediently.

“Oooh, nice, _very_ nice sweetheart, that was impressive, indeed…” John sounds sincerely pleased with Sherlock’s quick reaction, and his praise is like a salve on Sherlock’s jangling nerves. “Now, tonight is really all about _you._ You’re being so good for me, so lovely, and I want to _reward_ you for being so well-behaved.” 

Sherlock shivers. _Yes, John, yes, I’m so good for you, you see how good I am for you…_ It comes out as a low growl and a hungry stare.

John smiles. “So: You get to choose what happens next. Option 1: You can get back in my lap and I’ll spank you until you come.” Sherlock licks his lips. His cock feels so hard it’s painful, and the idea of letting John bring him to climax on his lap sounded delicious, indeed.

“Or then there’s Option 2: We play a game.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What sort of game?”

“Well, it’s a game designed for you to show off just how _good_ you can be. Now I’m not going to lie: It’s quite challenging, this game. It would have to be, since you’re being so perfect already; the point of the game is to push you even further.”

Sherlock purses his lips. This sounds like a trap.

“But on the upside, if you let me push you _further,_ it’ll give you a chance to _show off_ even more. And you _know_ how I love it when you show off for me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

And shit, that’s done it. John knows Sherlock never balks at a challenge, and being given an opportunity to _show off_ for John is an offer too good to pass up.

“Let’s play the game.” His words are short, clipped, curt. He’s eager to get on to the challenge-- and pass it with flying colours, dazzling John with his standard level of virtuosic talent.

“Alright. Up you get.” John stands up and extends a hand to Sherlock, who amiably takes it and rises himself, shaking out his legs a bit and ignoring the pinching pressure of the shifting plug in his tingling arse. “This way.”

John guides him across the room to the door, which he opens and ushers Sherlock into the stairwell. Sherlock feels completely confused, and a bit exposed being outside of the lab. The lab was a safe space, a sanctuary John had built just for _them._ But now they’re standing in the stairwell, and while John looks normal enough, Sherlock is stark naked save for the plug, covered in semen and dripping with sweat, shivering in anticipation. It’s disorientating, to say the least. 

John snaps and points to the ground next to his feet. Sherlock’s legs fold beneath him, and he kneels obediently beside John. He’s thrilled to discover he has _absolutely no bloody idea_ where this is going.

He can’t wait to find out.

“So here’s the deal.” John leans against the bannister with a casual air of nonchalance, crossing his arms in front of his chest and propping one foot up on the bottom step. “You’re going to crawl up the two flights of stairs to the landing of our flat. If you can do that without coming, you’ll get a reward. If you lose control and come without my permission, you’ll be punished.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. While it was true that in the past crawling for John used to turn him on so much he’d almost come untouched once or twice, that had been ages ago. John has let him practice crawling quite a bit since then, and he’s confident that he'll be able to stay in control the entire time. Granted, the whole endeavour sounds like it will be very unpleasant for his knees at the very least, so perhaps that’s the only real downside to this _not-so-challenging_ challenge. It’s all a bit disappointing. “Sure.”

John's gaze hardens. “What did you just say to me?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “I mean, _Yes, Captain.”_

“That’s what I thought.”

Sherlock shifts a bit, cracking his neck absentmindedly as he contemplates the task ahead of him. “So… what’s my reward if I make it to the top?”

John tilts his head. “You don’t trust me?”

“I do, but I _also_ enjoy imagining what you’re about to do to me when I’m in the process of _earning_ it.”

John can’t stop the flicker of a smile from creeping onto the corners of his lips. “Fair point. Well, if you make it to the top, I’m going to fuck you right there on the landing and come inside you, claiming you properly.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’m afraid I won’t be coming inside you for the rest of our session. And I don’t mean that the session is over; No, no, I still have plenty of items on my ‘to-do’ list for this evening, but I’ll pull out every time. You won’t get a single drop of my come inside you all night, no matter how many times I use you. Then I’ll put you to bed empty and open, fucked-out but completely unclaimed.”

It’s as if John has some sort of magic decoder ring that translates all of Sherlock’s deepest fears and darkest desires into basic sex acts and filthy words. The mere syllables coming out of his mouth turn Sherlock’s insides all to gelatin; the yawning, gaping terror of being used but unclaimed, of being _good_ but not _enough,_ of being _wanted_ but not _owned--_ John’s pushing on every pressure point he has like some sort of demented acupuncturist.

Happily, Sherlock’s cock doesn’t mind in the least. In fact, it appears to be _very_ interested in the proceedings.

“Very well, then.” Sherlock does his best to look unphased. After all, there was nothing to worry about; he simply needed to climb up two flights of stairs without blowing his load. Nothing he doesn’t do every day, he mentally reasons (granted, not nude and on all-fours, but how much would that _really_ change things?).

“Before you start… any interest in wearing this?” From somewhere behind him (honestly, it’s disconcerting just how _unobservant_ Sherlock gets when he’s submitting to John, but he quickly brushes the thought aside), John produces the leather leash.

Sherlock bites his lip. While it was true he wasn’t usually into lots of bells-and-whistles when it came to their sessions (scarves-and-belts were more his cup of tea, with the occasional bit of lingerie thrown in for flavour), he _had_ been reflecting about the leash since that night at Splay. How it felt to clip it to John’s collar, how heady it felt to be holding the end of it while John knelt at his feet. It hadn’t turned him on at the time, per se-- he was far too deep in Case Mode to really register it, but in hindsight, he couldn’t help but replay the scenario with their roles reversed, and wonder how it would feel to have _John_ hold the leash for _him._

So it would seem John’s on the same page once again.

_Excellent._

He tips his head to the side wordlessly, exposing the column of his neck in supplication. He’d have to be blind to miss the way John’s pupils dilate at the sight, the way his fingers shake ever so slightly as he reaches forward to hook the metal clasp around the ring of Sherlock’s collar.

The way they both exhale a breath they hadn’t known they’d been holding as the _snap_ of the hook closing echoes up the stairwell.

John licks his lips. “Ready, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock leans forward and places his palms on the lowest stair.

“Oh! I almost forgot. Silly me.” And with that, John leans down, reaches between Sherlock’s cheeks, and _turns on the plug._

The vibrations ricochet up his spine straight to the pleasure centre of his brain, and the next thing Sherlock knows, he’s rocking forward with a shout, fingers scrabbling against the staircase in frantic search of purchase.

“Jesus, FUCK! Oh, Christ, John-- FUCK!” He sways his pelvis to and fro, desperately seeking an angle that will make it feel less like the vibrator is about to hammer its way out of him from the inside. “NGH! AH, AH, FUCK!” He can feel a drop of precome leak from his tip and drip onto the floor below him. God, he was too close already--

“Easy there, Sherlock, shhhh, shhh…” John’s hand is warm and steady on his back. He’s tempted to buck it off; how _dare_ John attempt to soothe him when he was the one _causing_ this agony?

But it wasn’t agony, no, it was ecstasy, pure and golden, throbbing from his groin to his abdomen and out into his limbs. He rolls his hips to a new angle, and the vibrations transition into a prodding massage against his prostate instead of an all-out assault. 

Success. He takes a deep breath and focuses his attention. So long as he could keep his hips canted _just_ so, he could avoid orgasm for a little while longer.

 _“There_ we go, love! You’ve got it. Now come on, up we go.” With that, John briskly ascends four stairs, then turns around to stare expectantly down at Sherlock, who glares up at him from beneath a sweat-beaded brow.

Swearing under his breath, he forces his hands to move another two stairs up, then attempts to shuffle his knees as delicately as he can to follow.

“Ngh! Oh, ngh, ngh, oh…” Shit. It’s impossible to keep his hips tilted at the perfect angle as he lifts his knees, meaning the plug shifts and hammers directly into his prostate for a split second before he’s able to bring them back down. For the first time in his life, he curses his bloody prostate for being so _damn_ sensitive.

But he regains control. And as he repeats the action again and again, taking another stair and then two and then three, he acclimates to the waves of arousal that ebb and flow with his motions. Each time he lifts his knee, he internally steels himself for the assault on his prostate, and every time he lowers it, he breathes a sigh of relief as the assault becomes a massage, erotic but not overwhelming.

“Oh, fuck, that’s gorgeous.” He looks up to see John, still staying diligently two stairs ahead of him, unfastening his trousers and pulling out his turgid cock, stroking it with the hand not currently occupied holding Sherlock’s leash. “That’s it, show me more. Show me how good you can be.”

Dutifully, Sherlock takes another stair, and then another. He’s still rolling his hips, oscillating his pelvis, seeking to dull the sensation pulsing relentlessly inside him. He can feel the sweat trickling from his brow down his temples, feel the sinew in his arms straining and his muscles shaking, feel his reddened glutes flexing and releasing with each step he ascends. He loses himself in the pure physicality of it, in the incessant need to exert ultimate control over his own transport, and to demonstrate that control for John.

John, who is jerking himself so enthusiastically at the scene playing out that Sherlock’s half worried he’s going to lose control himself before they reach the landing of their flat. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes look black, dark and consumed with lust for the man submitting at his feet. Sherlock meets his gaze, and John’s breath hitches as he strokes himself even faster.

They make it to the door of 221C. John pulls it open and guides Sherlock down the corridor to the entryway by the front door. Sherlock’s addled brain absently hopes John made sure Mrs. H was out of town, lest she arrive home to find one of her tenants crawling on a leash completely nude whilst the other furiously masturbated in his direction. Probably nothing she hadn’t seen in Miami--

The thought makes him snort, which was a bad idea. The plug shifts and his pelvis rocks and the next thing he knows, his balls are pulling up and there’s a coiling in his gut and--

“John, John, help me, please, oh fuck, oh FUCK, help me--”

In the blink of an eye, John is kneeling beside him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he wraps one hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock and squeezes, _hard._ With the other, he delivers three harsh slaps to his backside.

“NO. You are not to come without my permission. NO, Sherlock. NO.”

The rush of pain from his backside catches him so completely off-guard that he feels thrown for a loop, sagging down onto his forearms with a forlorn wail.

“No.” John squeezes his cock again. _Fuck,_ that hurts.

...And it does just the trick. While he’s still undeniably aroused, his orgasm has receded from the horizon once more. 

He takes a wet, unsteady breath. “Thank you, John.”

“You’re quite welcome. Feeling better now?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Good. If I let go, are you going to come?”

“No, John.”

“Alright, then.” John’s palm disappears from his cock, and he pulls himself fully upright. “Now let’s go. You’re halfway there. Only one flight left.”

With tears in his eyes, Sherlock pushes back up onto his hands and moves to ascend the final flight of stairs to their landing.

It doesn’t get easier. The pressure is so intense, yet he’s somehow still startled when he discovers that the relentless groaning noise echoing through the stairwell is _him,_ his lungs pushing _out, out,_ as if trying to vacate his Transport under its current siege.

His knees ache and his muscles are trembling with exertion. He’s sweating so much he’s slick with it, shivering and overheated all at once. His insides feel like they’re in a jumble, churning and rearranging with each damnable palpitation from the plug in his arse, he but he narrows his focus and pushes and pushes and _pushes,_ the whole world collapsing down into each individual step, every Herculean effort bringing him ever so slightly closer to his prize.

He doesn’t really recognise when he reaches the landing. Truth be told, he’s not even sure he makes it over the threshold himself. All he registers is John hauling him bodily up the last stair, yanking the plug out of him, and thrusting savagely inside.

Sherlock screams at the sudden intrusion. While it was true the plug was plenty thick, it wasn’t as long as John, and the change in the depth and angle of penetration throws Sherlock’s already-delirious brain into a tailspin. 

He feels himself go limp, his arms giving out from under the weight of his sheer exertion, unable to support himself on all-fours any longer. Without missing a beat, John wraps his arms around his torso and heaves Sherlock back into his lap to piston up into his quickly-wilting form.

He wants to say John’s name, but finds himself just babbling incoherently as John ravages him from behind, bouncing him forcefully onto his cock in sharp, rhythmic movements. John’s saying things too, praise intermingled with filthy expletives, all growled into Sherlock’s ear as his head lists helplessly to the side.

Then John tightens his grip on the leash and pulls the collar taut, restricting Sherlock’s airflow _just_ enough to make him clench and startle. With the other hand, he grabs Sherlock’s aching prick and brings him off in three dry strokes.

It’s the kind of orgasm that makes Sherlock feel like he’s tearing apart at the seams. His back arches so forcefully he nearly chokes himself out against his collar, and his fingernails sink deep into John’s flexing thighs. There are tears running down his face, but all that matters is the transcendent sense of release radiating from his cock to every cell of his Transport, metamorphosing every ounce of pain into sheer, unadulterated bliss.

He finishes just in time to hear John swear, then he feels John’s muscular arms constrict forcefully around his chest, locking him into place. Three more heroic thrusts and John is coming, sinking his teeth into the back of Sherlock’s neck and claiming him with the fresh stream of seed he buries deep inside his passage. 

Sherlock wails and squeezes his channel as tightly as he can, as if that could somehow take John’s come even deeper into his body. He milks John’s cock for all he’s worth, desperate to take every last drop that John can give him.

And John gives generously. He continues to work himself up into Sherlock in short, frantic spasms long after the stream has subsided, grinding obscenely into his leaking hole as they both coast down from their mutual high.

At long last, John lifts Sherlock’s hips up, withdrawing his cock and guiding Sherlock gently forward onto his hands and knees. Sherlock shudders at the sudden emptiness, harsh gasps still wracking his trembling form. John runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s back in gentle, soothing strokes.

“Easy there. You with me, sweetheart? You alright?”

“Mmmhmm. I just… need a minute…”

“I know, I know, but you can’t rest here. Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

 _Bed?_ Bed was _miles_ away, in another _time zone,_ in another _universe._ Sherlock is fairly certain the only logical next step is to take a kip right there on the landing.

But John’s hands are firm and his arms are strong and the next thing Sherlock knows, he’s staggering through the door to their flat and down the hall to the bedroom, his knees screaming in protest but John holds him upright, murmuring encouragement and praise into his ear. He has no idea how he manages it, but he somehow stumbles all the way to the bedroom and straight into bed, which has been stripped of all linens save for the mattress sheet.

“There we go, nice and easy. Roll over now, face up.” Sherlock groans but John persists, grip steady on his shoulder and hip as he helps rearrange him in the centre of the bed. “Perfect. Lovely. Now hold still.”

Sherlock chuckles at the concept of having any other choice. He feels like his skeleton has melted away completely, leaving him an amorphous blob of jelly.

“Let’s see. Where did I put the… Ah!” John emerges in Sherlock’s peripheral vision, holding several lengths of jute rope in his hands. “Here we go. Let’s get you ready to relax.”

And without further ado, he proceeds to thread the rope through the ring on Sherlock’s right wrist cuff and then fasten it to the bedpost. He repeats the process with his left wrist, and then moves on to his ankles. By the time he’s done, Sherlock is entirely immobilised, starfished on the bed, completely at John’s mercy once more.

He can’t be arsed to care. It feels _good_ to lie here, _good_ to feel the sweat on his skin and the ache in his joints and the come dripping from his arse. He feels filthy, used, utterly debauched and stripped bare and displayed for all to see, and it’s good, it’s so _good…_

John disappears momentarily and returns with a glass of water and a straw. He has Sherlock take a few careful sips, and Sherlock is grateful. He brushes Sherlock’s mottled curls back from his sweat-soaked forehead, and Sherlock preens. John doesn’t try and clean him up; he knows Sherlock likes to be left dirty in moments like this, but he does make sure he’s comfortable, coddled and secure.

John leaves and returns again, and this time Sherlock yelps with surprise as he feels something frigid come into contact with his left kneecap.

“Shhh, shhh, sweetheart, I’m just putting ice packs on your knees.”

“Why?” His voice sounds muddled and whiney. He doesn’t care.

“Because some people on the message boards mentioned that it helps after crawling. May not feel like much now, but trust me, you’ll be grateful in the morning that we took care of your knees tonight.”

“Mmm.” Now that he’s gotten used to it, the ice packs do feel good. “It’s… nice. Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome, love. Want me to leave you for a bit?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright. Just call for me if you need me, yeah?”

“Mmm.”

And with a soft kiss to his forehead, John disappears.

Sherlock drifts.

Sometime later, John comes back. Maybe it’s hours, maybe it’s minutes. All Sherlock knows is that when John returns, his eyes have gone dark again, and all traces of tenderness have been erased from his face. Sherlock begins to tremble.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallows. “Hello, John.”

John comes to stand by the side of the bed. He looks stern, dispassionate.

Sherlock’s cock begins to harden.

“I want to push you further.”

Sherlock blinks. “Alright, John.”

John gives him a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Are you alright with some breathplay tonight?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

“Mmm. Good.” Slowly, methodically, John makes his way to the foot of the bed and begins to unfasten the rope connecting the cuff on Sherlock’s left ankle to the bedpost. “You remember our rules for breathplay?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Why don’t you say them out loud for me?” John’s fingers are steady and nimble. He finishes freeing Sherlock’s left ankle and moves on to the right.

“You’re in charge of counting. You will not exceed the time limit under any circumstances. If I need you to stop, snap twice. If I need you to pause, snap once.”

“Good. Good.” John finishes untying Sherlock’s right ankle, then grabs it firmly with his left hand. He repeats the process on the right, then shoves Sherlock’s legs up towards his chest as he clambers onto the bed to slot himself between them.

Sherlock moans as his legs fall open to make way for John. His arms are still immobilized, and he strains feebly against his bindings.

Now firmly slotted between Sherlock’s thighs, John reaches up to fumble with something.

Something…

_Something…_

_The leash._

_Oh God, the leash._

_Christ, he’d forgotten he was even wearing it._

The next thing Sherlock knows, John’s winding the leash up and around the top slat of the headboard, securing it into a pulley system. With one hand, he yanks Sherlock’s right leg out to the side by his ankle. With the other hand, he pulls the leash taut.

The effect is instantaneous. The leather of the collar constricts violently around his throat, and he finds himself suddenly, dizzyingly unable to breathe. On instinct, he seizes and flails, and it’s at that moment that John impales him with his rock-hard cock.

It’s violent and terrifying and everything Sherlock has ever dreamed of. His adrenal gland gushes, lighting up his synapses like kindling in a wildfire. He’s dying, he’s fucking _dying,_ and it’s _so much better than high, just like he always knew it would be._

Then the collar loosens and he’s heaving and crying, and John’s just fucking into him more vigorously, staring mercilessly down at him as he tightens his grip and yanks the leash taut once again.

And John fucks him and chokes him over and over and _over_ and it’s obscene and twisted and _the best thing he’s ever felt,_ and his eyes glow tear-bright and his blood flows flame-red and his breath blooms ice-hot and he’s so _alive,_ he’s _alive,_ and _oh, oh, oh…_

Sherlock has often heard of Subspace described as _Floating._ Or sometimes _Drifting,_ or _Flying._ And it’s true, oftentimes when he’s submitting to John he slides into that perfect weightless _place, _and he’s high, high, high out of his mind.__

But there’s another kind of surrender he experiences, too. A different kind. A darker kind.

He calls it the _Plunge._

One minute, he’s standing at the edge of a great grey cliff, looking out over the sea. Then he turns his back to the water, holds out his arms, and falls.

First, there’s air, then blissful, blessed water. The impact doesn’t hurt; it’s simply a transitioning of states as he breaks beneath the surface and sinks into the inky water’s depths.

It should be suffocating, but it’s not. It’s not that he can breathe underwater, per se. It’s more that he doesn’t feel compelled to breathe at all. The impulse has simply disappeared. It’s not frightening or distressing, it just _is._

So he sinks down deeper and deeper into the darkness, until the sunlight turns from milk-blue to slate grey and then fades from view altogether. All around him now is blue-black water. He is weightless and he is infinite.

He’s suspended here for a small eternity. Because that’s what it is; a thousand lifetimes in the blink of an eye, an odyssey in a single breath.

And then, a light. Tiny and faint, like phosphorescent plasma, but growing brighter, stronger. The light grows and glows and pierces the darkness and floats serenely towards him.

This little light, no larger than a pinprick, connects with his finger. And his fingertip begins to glow, aflame in kindred awakening. His veins carry the light up, up his arm, across his chest, up his neck, and to his brain. His body ignites, and he _rises,_ pulled to the surface like a pole to its opposite. His blood sings and his heart hammers, and oh God, to be _alive…_

Alive and in the arms of John Watson, who is peppering his face with kisses, holding his trembling body in his arms, seeking affirmation in his unseeing eyes. Sherlock rises fully into himself, and blinks.

“Hi, John.”

John’s smile looks a little watery. “Hi there, love. You back with me?”

“Mmm. Yes. Sort of.”

“Good.” John’s voice is soft, and his fingers comb gently through Sherlock’s curls. “You feeling alright? You were pretty far under there at the end.”

Sherlock tucks his chin down and burrows his forehead against John’s chest, retreating into his arms. “Yeah. I went down hard. But I’m alright. Although I think I should probably be done now.”

John chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Yes, I think you’ve had plenty tonight. Are you ready for me to take the collar off?”

Sherlock cocks his head to the side. “Mmm. Yes, please.”

John removes the collar and the cuffs without event (save for one rather amusing moment when he sits on one of the discarded ice packs that had somehow found its way into the bed), then he helps Sherlock into the bath and scrubs him down, cleaning his come off of Sherlock with a near-wholesome tenderness Sherlock can never quite quantify. John washes Sherlock’s hair, then lets him soak a bit before towelling him off and guiding him to their freshly-made bed.

John flicks off the light and Sherlock sighs, deeply content as John wraps his arms around him and pulls him close.

“Feeling good, love?”

“God, yes.”

“Good. You were so _fucking_ good for me tonight.”

“Mmm. Thank you for rewarding me.”

“Did you… did you like the leash?”

“Mmmm… it was good, but not a favourite. Think that should just be for rare occasions.”

“Fair enough. Glad we tried it, though.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Though Javier will be disappointed.”

“Javier?”

“Javier Cortez? The owner of that BDSM club you made out with in front of me?”

“Oh, him.”

“Yes, him. What are you going to say when he calls?”

Sherlock scrunches his nose. “Don’t be obtuse, John, he’s not going to call me. He doesn’t have my number.”

John lets out an indignant huff. “Um, Sherlock, he definitely _does._ You gave him your bloody business card.”

“No, I gave him _a_ bloody business card. It has Mycroft’s direct line on it. I had them specially made to give to _all_ my unwanted suitors.”

“Have a lot of unwanted suitors, do you, then?”

“Well, not hard to imagine when I only _want_ one…” And with that, he tips his head up and captures John’s lips against his. 

****************************

Three months later, an envelope arrives in their mail slot addressed simply, _For the Boys._

Having learned a thing or two over the past decade of thwarting dangerous criminals, Mrs. H hastily delivers it to Sherlock pressed in a plastic bag to preserve all fingerprints and traces of explosives. Sherlock tests it for reactants, toxins, flammable chemical agents, and Anthrax. He examines the fibrous pulp of the envelope and the chemical composition of the ink. 

Finally, Sherlock presents his findings (or lack thereof) to John, who proceeds to take the envelope in hand with a look of poorly-disguised amusement at the thoroughness of Sherlock’s examination.

“It’s a…” John pulls out a small rectangle of cardstock. “Gift certificate to Angelo’s.” He looks sincerely perplexed.

“Is there a note?” Sherlock is equally befuddled.

John digs around in the envelope and pulls out a small scrap of paper. He stares down at it, then snorts and shakes his head, holding it out for Sherlock to read.

In an elegant black scrawl is written:

_Enjoy your dinner._

There was no signature. Just the stain from a pair of blood-red lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Drops mic, collapses onto fainting couch.*
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me through this one! Hopefully the payoff was worth it.
> 
> I'm going to take a little hiatus to focus on a few other projects, but please leave comments and PROMPTS! I'll still be popping in to post porn-y one-offs now and again until I feel suitably recovered to take on a larger plot.
> 
> Until then--  
> i

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments. There's nothing to do in quarantine but read them.


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